


Never Explain Anything

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Bickering, Book "shop" implies actually selling books, Courtship, Crowley actually being proactive about advancing the relationship, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley only travels first class, Crowley wearing increasingly gender neutral clothing, Dating without admitting it, Emotional Sex, Fake Marriage, Fashion & Couture, First Time, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hedonism, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lap Pillow, M/M, Mostly series canon but mix and matches with book canon, Mutual Pining, Nanny and Francis at least for a bit, Near death confession (averted), Only one hotel suite, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Ridiculous luxury, Sappy Ending, Shamelessly tropey, Tropes, possessive Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-08-11 07:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20149960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: “Oh. Yeah.” Crowley shuffled his feet, looking surprisingly boyish. “Come to New York with me tomorrow?"Aziraphale blinked. “Why?"“To see how Warlock is doing,” Crowley said, as if that was obvious. “You’re a terrible father for an angel. I’m a demon, and I make a far better mother.""We're not his parents! He has two perfectly good parents of his own!""Fine."---Aziraphale is almost certain that Crowley is only being perverse. But demons are unaccountable creatures, and Aziraphale finds himself flying to New York with him, for some high-end hedonism, and at exactly which point did Crowley start referring to him as his husband anyway?---Complete 20th August





	1. The whole world at your feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Romana (romana03)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romana03/gifts).

“Well, goodnight, my dear.” Another of those awkward silences, in which they sat there, as if barely three hands breaths of leather between them was some kind of insuperable distance, and waited for one of them to say something or do to break the weight of sixty centuries.

“Night, angel.” Crowley took in a breath, as if gathering courage, and Aziraphale froze, hand on the door, waiting for the words. “Walk you to the door?"

It was on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue to say something snippety about being an angel with full enough powers that he could walk a few metres to his own door in perfect safety. Fortunately, he had given himself a firm enough talking to the night before about self-sabotage that he swallowed the words. “Please,” he said instead, and he could feel how shy his smile was, as if this was some kind of stranger.

Crowley’s smile wasn’t shy at all, it was relieved and radiant, and really this was _ridiculous_, but Aziraphale’s own smile increased anyway. “Good. I have something important to ask you.”

He made a nervous show of unlocking the door. It was late, but he didn’t sleep and Crowley didn’t _need_ to and there was absolutely no reason not to invite him in. Instead he turned in the doorway, door unlocked but still closed, and Crowley was standing _very_ close, looking at him with such a deep, fascinated, snake-like stare that he dropped the keys.

Crowley bent and picked them up, pressing them into his hand, his cool skin whispering over Aziraphale’s own.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, and then because he was embarrassed, asked, “What was it you wanted to ask me?"

“Oh. Yeah.” Crowley shuffled his feet, looking surprisingly boyish. “Come to New York with me tomorrow?"

Aziraphale blinked. “Why?"

“To see how Warlock is doing,” Crowley said, as if that was obvious.

“Warlock?” He blinked again, and Crowley looked annoyed.

“Yeah, Warlock. Remember him? We raised him for eleven years, or did you forget about him the moment you saw Adam Young? I know Warlock isn’t the Antichrist or anything, but that should be an advantage from your point of view. Don’t you care how he is doing after being dragged off to Megiddo?” Crowley was definitely looking nasty now, absolutely like a pissed-off demon, and the whole thing was going so differently to how Aziraphale expected that he didn’t quite know how to respond.

Unfortunately what came out of his mouth was, “You were the one who suggested killing the boy."

“It wasn’t personal.” Crowley took off his dark glasses, apparently the better to glare at him. “He’s still our kid."

“B-but, Crowley, he’s not our kid,” Aziraphale said helplessly, wondering if Crowley was going insane or if he was.

“You’re a terrible father for an angel,” Crowley said, accusingly. “I’m a demon, and I make a far better mother."

“We’re not his parents! Warlock has two perfectly good parents of his own!"

“Fine!"

They glared at each other for a moment, still crammed together in the doorframe. Then Crowley leaned forward suddenly, and dropped a kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek, a hairsbreadth from the corner of his mouth, and swung back to the car before Aziraphale could react.

“Pick you up at lunchtime,” he said. “The plane tickets are booked for the evening.” He opened the car door and slid inside

“I don’t believe you. You never book anything,” Aziraphale called after him, hearing his laughter as the door slammed.

Aziraphale pushed open the door, feeling ridiculously flustered, and as if the cool touch of lips on his cheek had somehow burned him with hellfire. He felt like he’d lost some kind of battle, somehow.

* * *

“Oh, Lord."

“Don’t blaspheme,” said Crowley sternly, readjusting the fit of a black skirt over slim thighs. “You don’t want Warlock not recognising his Nanny.” He sent Aziraphale a stern glare over the top of his glasses. “He’ll have no idea who you are at all."

“I’ll change in New York, if you insist. Besides, I thought you’d decided you’re his mother, not his Nanny."

Crowley ignored that, and sniffed. “Perhaps it’s for the best, if we’re travelling in first class. You’re not the only one with standards."

Aziraphale trailed after the dark figure to the car, aware he had allowed himself to be caught off-foot again, and determined to regain his balance. One of Crowley’s stockings was crooked, and even Aziraphale knew that seamed stockings were not that all that common these days. Crowley was deliberately being provocative so that Aziraphale would be overcome by the need to tidy up and fuss over stockinged legs. He was not falling into that trap.

He stared at the sashaying hips and wondered if Crowley had bothered to change bodily configuration this time, and then why he cared. He slammed his door with rather too much vehemence.

“You,” said Crowley, “are a heartless angel, and always have been. At least for centuries."

“Nonsense. I am a soldier of love. May I remind you that the last time we saw that child, he was attempting to blast you away with a very real gun?"

“Was he? I thought it was a water pistol."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Oh,” said Crowley, thoughtfully. “That was you? I suppose I should thank you."

“Go on, then."

“Later.” The Bentley roared into life. “Anyway, I’m sure he didn’t mean any real harm. Just a bright and mischievous spirit. He takes after his mother."

“She’s a very nice lady—"

“_Me._"

Aziraphale sulked—no, maintained a dignified semi-silence—all the way to Heathrow, even through a rather delicious lunch at a pub. It didn’t help his temper that Crowley insisted on making a spectacle of them by pouring the tea and fussing over him like a housewife from a fifties sitcom. People kept giving them fond looks. They probably wouldn’t be as approving if they realised Crowley had just given the impression of paying without actually doing so. Aziraphale was in a petty and unangelic enough mood to let Crowley get away with it, although he did make sure to tip generously himself.

They arrived a quarter of an hour after the plane was supposed to leave, but Crowley didn’t worry about things like that. The plane would leave when they were good and ready. Aziraphale passed his bags to the concierge service, and the demon disappeared in the direction of the loos. When he returned he was in jeans and a half buttoned shirt over a slightly hairy chest again, although his mouth was still red with lipstick, hair caught up in a tight bun.

“Stockings and tight skirts are Hell to travel in,” he explained. “I should know.” Aziraphale refrained from asking him what the point of wearing them to the airport at all was then.

Somehow Crowley managed to get through the formalities without any staff, fixed by the demon’s cold gaze, remembering to ask for sunglasses to be removed. Aziraphale changed into a comfortable cardigan and slippers and ignored Crowley’s rolled eyes. He sank into the seat he was ushered to on the plane with a sigh of relief. He wasn’t keen on planes at the best of times. They seemed an inconvenient way to fly, and part of his mind still associated them with bombs and young men shooting each other to shreds. Crowley loved them almost as much as he loved cars, and was looking happily around, fiddling with gadgets.

The dividing wall was pulled down between their adjoining suites, but Aziraphale was secretly disappointed to realise their armchairs were a long way apart, too far for easy conversation. Still, he had a carry-on full of books, and he was sure Crowley would have enough mindless electronic entertainment to be going on with. There would be plenty of quality alcohol to amuse them both, too. Aziraphale picked up the menu, and busied himself with pretending that the whole tedious taking off process wasn’t going to happen.

He was well into his third glass of champagne and a book on experimental physics when Crowley had the beds made up. They were technically single beds, but bedding covered the lowered dividing wall to make a double bed of kind. Crowley arranged oversized pillows against the wall on both sides, removed his glasses, cast his lean form on the bed, and patted the other side.

“At least come here. This is too much like drinking alone, and that’s pitiful."

Aziraphale peered at him over the top of his reading glasses, and Crowley sighed, letting his hair down in soft ginger waves. “Look, I’m not asking you to join the mile high club, just be companionable. Bring your book and your bottle."

Aziraphale could think of no good reason to refuse, and protesting would draw attention to his sudden furious blushing. He was somewhat lonely anyway, so he obeyed.

There was a small teddy bear on his side of the bed, and he carefully removed it and put it on the nightstand.

“See you got the boy one. They gave me the girl, just because I’m wearing makeup.”

Aziraphale declined to point out that Crowley probably _had_ been a girl, or at least a mature female-presenting demon, only a few hours ago. The demon was glaring balefully at the bow on his teddy bear’s head, and Aziraphale deftly rescued it before it could suffer a violent fate that might set off the smoke alarms. He carefully settled it next to its partner and swung his legs up onto the bed.

“That’s better, we can talk properly now,” said Crowley with satisfaction, and promptly went to sleep.

Aziraphale sighed, settled back on his pillows, and went back to his book. Demons were such unaccountable creatures.

It was a couple of hours before he heard Crowley mutter in his sleep and turn over, sprawling horizontally across the bed.

“Bad dreams, my dear?” Aziraphale asked softly, aware of the theory if not the experience. If anyone was going to have nightmares, it was probably one of the Fallen. Crowley grunted and rolled again, pillowing his head against Aziraphale’s hip and flinging an arm over his thigh. That seemed to relax him, and he murmured again and relaxed, arm wound around Aziraphale’s thigh.

Aziraphale sat still for a moment, trying to work out the situation.

“If you get lipstick stains on my favourite trousers, you’re responsible for the miracle cleaning,” he said, carefully watching Crowley’s face. There was no answering twitch of the lips or eyelids, so it seemed he really was asleep.

Right. He waited a while until he was sure Crowley was deep under, then carefully lifted the clinging arm and eased himself out from under it.

He hesitated a moment, then picked up both teddy bears and, moving very slowly and carefully, put them under Crowley’s arm. The demon muttered again and then, to Aziraphale’s malicious delight, hugged them tightly in his sleep.

Aziraphale clipped the seatbelt across Crowley’s waist and very slowly rose to his feet, and padded across to his chair.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed.

He froze at the soft voice.

“G’night, angel,” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale relaxed. For a moment he’d thought—but that was stupid.

“Sleep well, my dear,” he said and started the next chapter.


	2. There they were, all together, up in the air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Angel, no one says betrothed these days."

Aziraphale hadn’t observed many beings sleeping, at least not in relatively happy circumstances rather than while doing his best in plague hospitals. He was pretty sure most of them didn’t make such a performance of it as Crowley.

The demon rolled violently over from side to side, attempted to coil up like a snake and hissed in annoyance in his sleep when his bipedal body didn’t bend that way, and flung his arms out dramatically, sending the teddies shooting across the suite. Without the dark glasses, it was clear he was wearing eyeliner and mascara. He had gone to bed fully dressed except for his jacket, but at some point his belt had become undone and his shirt had ridden up over his stomach, exposing a pale flat stomach. Aziraphale noted that either the Almighty or the All-Evil had thoughtfully provided Crowley's vessel with a human-looking navel. Aziraphale ached to cover him decently up, especially as the air conditioning was probably on too high for a cold-blooded creature. He reluctantly decided there was too much chance of catching a fist or foot in the head if he tried, and moved on to reading a book about the history and cultural importance of apples.

When Crowley apparently decided he would be most content with his head on the pillow and his body extended vertically up the wall of the cabin, Aziraphale decided it was time to intervene before any cabin crew entered and thought it was odd.

“Crowley,” he said softly. Crowley snorted and stayed asleep. It seemed had finally found a position as comfortable as cuddled against an angel’s hip, even though his shirt had fallen altogether over his face. “Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated, louder and more firmly. “Wake up."

Nothing. Aziraphale gave a worried glance at the time. He had ordered breakfast to arrive soon, and Crowley was looking decidedly abnormal for a mortal. He huffed in annoyance, put the book down, went over and poked Crowley experimentally in the stomach.

Crowley grabbed his arm and flipped heels over head, forcing Aziraphale down on the bed and landing across him, lying across his chest with Aziraphale’s arm trapped between them. Then yellow eyes opened as he came to consciousness, his face so close to Aziraphale that the angel couldn’t focus properly, and gave him a long unblinking look that had _meaning_, there was no use pretending it didn't.

“Hullo, Aziraphale.” He grinned slowly with crimson painted lips.

Aziraphale tried to relax, although his heart was trying to escape his ribcage. After all, this had been looming since _go off together_ and _stay at my place_ and even back as far as _anywhere you want to go_, and he had resolved not to panic now that Heaven could not possibly disapprove of him less anyway. He let his own lashes flutter closed, and slightly parted his lips.

“Sorry about that.” Crowley rolled off. “Instinct. Must have suspected you were a demon hunter or smiting angel or something come to off me while I was vulnerable. Bit reckless, waking a sleeping demon."

“It’s not exactly a common situation,” Aziraphale reminded him, sitting up and readjusting his cardigan while his heartbeat returned to normal, trying not to feel bitter. He unobtrusively miracled away the lipstick and mascara smears Crowley had left all over the expensive bedlinen. Despite making a mess of the bed, Crowley’s face remained perfect and unsmudged. Of _course_ it did.

“What’s for breakfast?” Crowley asked cheerfully, sliding his sunglasses back onto his face and doing up his belt.

Aziraphale, left to himself, had decided to order what he liked for both of them. Crowley made no objections to the choice of kyo-kaiseki breakfast, pulling an ottoman up to the retractable dining table on Aziraphale’s side so they could eat together. Crowley seemed in a remarkably good mood, drinking a lot of green tea, trying every delicacy, and letting Aziraphale tell him all about his reading with more patience than eye-rolling. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought more kindly, Crowley really did miss the child, and was genuinely happy to be seeing him again. For a demon, he could be a dear thing.

When the attendant came to clear their dishes and ask if they wanted anything more, Crowley actually gave her a friendly smile rather than snarling on the principle of spreading bad will. “Coffee for me, and Darjeeling for my husband."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. It was all he felt he could do, with conflicting emotions a bit beyond what he could find words for.

“Practicing,” Crowley explained blithely, in answer to his look.

“_Practicing,_” Aziraphale said, his voice faint.

“Well, you don’t suppose the ex-Nanny and the ex-gardener turn up together in a completely different country all the time, do you?"

“It was you who insisted on coming together!"

“Watch your language or I’ll take it the wrong way.” Crowley smiled like a snake, "Anyway, we needed a reason. So I thought we could announce our engagement to our former employers, that’s all. ‘We met because of you’ and all that sentimental rubbish.”

“Our engagement,” Aziraphale repeated. The attendant, returning with tea and coffee, beamed fondly at them. “Wait, that wouldn’t make me your—husband,” he said, with some difficulty getting the word out without blushing, after she left. He was rather afraid his hands had fluttered a bit. “That would only make me your betrothed."

“Angel, no one says betrothed these days. You’re my fiancé."

“So you _do_ know the correct word isn’t husband."

“Forgot.” Crowley gulped his coffee. “Humans have too many names for these things. Anyway, it’s only a difference in timing, darling."

Aziraphale decided the only possible solution was to pretend the entire conversation had never happened. Crowley made it more difficult by taking the opportunity to say “my husband” five more times before they had left the plane and airport, not that Aziraphale was counting. Or reacting.

Crowley hadn't resumed a more obviously female form or clothes, but his hair was now swept off one side of his face with a wrapped French braid, and his mouth was still as crimson as the underbelly of his snake form. Aziraphale couldn’t remember ever seeing Crowley with three hairstyles in two days before, and it was bothering him. Crowley saw himself as a passionate devotee to fashion, and tried to keep up with human trends. In reality, when the demon found a style he liked and was in keeping with the kind of human he wanted to appear, he tended to wear the exact same thing every day until he realised trends had moved on and went on a new rush of exciting research. The hair experimentation and the dabbling in cosmetics were new.

Having his face half shadowed with waves on one side and the rest of his hair pulled back to highlight the sharp lines of his face suited him. Aziraphale decided not to mention it in case Crowley immediately changed it out of perversity.

“Please tell me you hired a chauffeur,” said Aziraphale, realising he was really not up to Crowley driving in New York. He might cause hurt feelings if he travelled separately, but there were such a thing as limits.

“Came with the hotel room,” said Crowley briefly, leading the way to a waiting Rolls-Royce.

“Oh. I am _so_ glad that you are working hard on getting back into character as a humble employee."

“Now, now, angel. You really don't want me staying at a hostel. You have no idea how much sin I can spread with people all crammed up together like that.” They settled in, and Aziraphale fastened his seatbelt. “Can’t a girl spoil her husband on their honeymoon?"

“Fiancé, and it’s too early for a honeymoon.” Crowley was definitely aiming at turning him as pink as possible. And why was he playing along with this nonsense anyway?

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I changed my mind. We were overcome by passion and eloped. I mean seriously, do you want to arrange a wedding? All the paperwork would send you out of your mind. And who would we actually invite?” Crowley reached for the champagne. "Let's celebrate our marriage."

Aziraphale folded his hands and glared.

“Besides, I couldn’t drive another car," Crowley went on. He passed a flute to Aziraphale, the champagne poured perfectly without a hint of foam despite the moving car. He did have some useful talents. "The Bentley would be jealous. Do you think she misses me?” he asked plaintively. “She might think I left her in the garage because I don’t love her anymore."

“You’ve only been away a few hours. Anyway, _it_ doesn’t have feelings,” Aziraphale added hastily, remembering himself. It was an excellent champagne. “It can’t possibly miss you."

“Don’t you dare say that in her presence. You’ll hurt her feelings.” Crowley lolled back, glass in hand. “At least the plants will be all right. I let them know what would happen if they wilted. They can water themselves if they know what’s good for them."

“How long do you intend on being in New York?” Aziraphale asked, curiously and a bit anxiously. He hadn’t prepared himself for a long separation from his books.

“Depends on how much I miss my car."

Aziraphale sighed, sat back in a rather less uncontrolled fashion himself, and enjoyed the novel sensation of travelling in a way that let him see the passing by scenery and didn’t put him in fear for his corporeal self.

He tried not to click his tongue in disapproval when they arrived at the penthouse suite. A _little_ luxury was acceptable. After all, they were on this planet for an awfully long time and it couldn’t all be hair shirts and sackcloth, which were most uncomfortable and made it harder to have energy for his work. Still, he had the guilty feeling, taking in the mother-of-pearl inlaid walls and gigantic chandelier, that this place was decidedly lacking in virtuous humility.

Crowley pattered his shoulder, understanding. “Cheer up, angel. Look, this was my choice, so I’m the one committing _gula_, not you. Cardinal sins are right and proper for a demon, and you’re just here being a good influence on me and our kid.” Aziraphale huffed a bit, and Crowley pushed his glasses up on top of his head to wink at him. "You’ll feel more at home when you see the library. And there’s a massage table and a steam shower and a waterfall as well as a bath. It will feel like being back in Rome, only with good food and drinkable wine and _books_,” he wheedled.

“How long have you been planning this?” Aziraphale asked suspiciously.

“Since last night when I dropped you off. There’s a really, really pissed off arms dealer out there wondering how his private jet could possibly get lost on the way to New York. See, I’m doing Heaven’s work for you. How many lives do you think our holiday is saving? Relax and have fun, angel."

It _was_ a very nice library, if he ignored all the ostentatious bronze leaves everywhere, with a tasteful collection, at least more tasteful than the light fittings. How could he be ungrateful, when Crowley, for whatever unfathomable reason of his own, seemed to be so desperate to treat him? Aziraphale resolved to enjoy it. It was not that he expected Crowley to err on the side of restraint rather than grandiosity. Aziraphale had seen his chairs.

Still, Aziraphale heartily disliked all the plate glass and the surrounding views. Crowley probably didn’t realise. The dear boy had only visited the Sixth Floor of The Building once since the Fall, and it looked quite different back in the Beginning. Crowley would have had other things than architecture on his mind that last visit, like the angels not noticing he was a demon and deciding to resort to holy water after all, not noticing the architecture. Aziraphale, though, couldn’t help being reminded of seeing all the world stretched out below him, and how cold Heaven was, and yet how much colder it was being shut off from the love of his team through his own actions.

He probably should feel more isolated than he did. Still, when he brought a small pile of books back to the living room and saw Crowley sprawled face down along a couch by the blazing fire, wine glass already in hand, Aziraphale really didn’t feel cold or lonely at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The Four Seasons Hotel Ty Warner suite. Fifty grand a night. It does have a nice library, although obviously I can’t say from experience.
> 
> 2) Seriously, you should see my Google news feed since I got back into fandom. It is all luxury dining, Ancient history, religion and the care of houseplants. Google thinks I’m a cardinal with a mother-in-law's tongue obsession or something.
> 
> 3) _Gula_ is the cardinal sin of overindulgence, often listed as gluttony, but meaning overindulgence, waste and over-luxury in anything, really. Of course Aziraphale is hardly innocent, with his sub-sins being _laute_ (eating too expensively) and _ardenter _(eating too eagerly, because pleasure is bad, guys.)
> 
> 4) All the tropes. I am being shameless with this one.
> 
> 5) Oh, all chapter titles are from _Mary Poppins._ For obvious reasons.


	3. Wonder much too much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do not,” said the demon in a strangled voice, “play fair.”

Crowley waved vaguely at Aziraphale and the wine. “Just called the boss, she’s taken our son to an Adventure Farm or something, won’t be back in the city for a couple of days. So we have some time to kill."

“Well, Warlock will like that,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, taking the seat across from the table. “I instilled a deep love for all of God’s creatures into his heart."

Crowley snickered a little. Aziraphale thought of asking why Crowley hadn’t checked if Warlock’s family would actually be in New York before dragging him all the way there, and then didn’t ask after all. It occurred to him that Crowley _might have_, and also that he hadn’t heard Nanny Astoreth’s voice _or_ Crowley’s on the phone. He decided it was best not to make an issue of it. The demon could be very touchy when he was put on the spot.

“All right.” Aziraphale cast his eyes around, looking for something he could actually genuinely appreciate about the penthouse. It was looking better already with books on the coffee table softening the dreadful sterile neatness of it all.

“I like the fire,” he said cordially. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why it had Egyptian gods in it, any more than he understood any of the other decorating choices. Still, he mostly had good memories of the Kingdoms, except for the really bad bits that he tried to put out of his mind. Better to remember the honeyed dates and the music and the writing and, in a secret part of his mind, Crowley in translucent linens and even heavier eyeliner than he had on now. Crackling fire was always nice in any case, warm and organic and messy.

“Fire reminds me of home. Only less damp.” Crowley's tone was casual, but the corners of his eyes were crinkled up with pleasure, and Aziraphale knew he’d said the right thing. He looked around for something else to praise, and his eye fell on the chess table, which was admittedly beautiful.

“Come give me a match, dear fellow."

“Aziraphale, please. We are in one of the most temptation filled cities in the world, and you want to spend the afternoon playing board games?” He was moaning, but clearly not really reluctant, and Aziraphale crossed and offered him a courtly arm.

“It’s that or take me on a tour of antiquarian bookshops,” he said firmly.

There was an odd second of hesitation, almost enough to be uncomfortable, and then Crowley looped his free hand around Aziraphale’s arm and pulled himself to his feet, wine sloshing in his glass. They stared at each other for a moment, Crowley’s slitted pupils unreadable, his hand still around Aziraphale’s arm.

“Tomorrow,” he said eventually, without moving his unblinking gaze.

“What do you mean, dear boy?"

“Bookshops. No good taking you out now, you’ll just be getting started and it will be time for afternoon tea."

“_Oh_,” said Aziraphale, surprised and pleased and dissolving into smiles, and Crowley nodded as if satisfied, dropped his hand and went to the chessboard.

Chess, or any kind of game, with Crowley was always absorbing, because as well as the usual challenge of a mind as old and wily as his own there was the extra entertainment of watching for all the moments when Crowley would inevitably cheat. Aziraphale was able to relax, and focus on tactics and Crowley instead of on being 52 stories up and surrounded by plate glass, and this was nice, it was really nice. No worries about being caught, about being in trouble. Just being together, and watching Crowley’s rather nice hands, large and well-shaped, moving the pieces. He was wearing matte red nail polish. Surely he had been making fun of Aziraphale for some entirely discreet clear gloss only last week?

Aziraphale must have been distracted by the thought, because the next thing he knew Crowley was gloating most unsportingly at checkmate. Aziraphale sighed and clapped his hands, almost sure he was applauding some spectacular bit of cheating he had missed through inattention.

“Afternoon tea, I think,” said Crowley happily, as if rewarding a child with a treat. “Come on."

“Do they even serve it here?"

“If you know where to go."

They ended up ensconced in comfortable chairs in a self-consciously British tearoom. Aziraphale gave one horrified look at the flavoured teas and tea bags, tried to ignore that the tea tray had cakes on the bottom tier and scones on the top in some kind of barbarous display of anarchy, and decided to focus on the dainty teaware.

“This is all quite lovely,” he said sincerely, not meaning the tea but the whole situation, Crowley’s unusual and bristling kindness. Crowley hissed and looked away, but his cheekbones and the tips of his ears were pink, and something melted in Aziraphale.

They managed not to bicker for nearly the entire rest of the afternoon and evening. They wandered the streets together, Crowley’s hands shoved deep in his pockets while he circled restlessly from one side of Aziraphale to the other. Aziraphale let him. They stopped only for takeaway coffee and hot chocolate and once at a jeweller’s when Crowley spotted a watch in a jeweller’s window and pulled Aziraphale into the shop.

“I thought you only wore custom watches,” Aziraphale protested mildly. He couldn’t see Crowley wearing anything bought from an ordinary shop. “Besides, it’s green. You never wear green."

“It’s for our precious little boy, darling.” Crowley gloated over it. The lady behind the counter smiled sentimentally at them. "And we never did bother to get him a birthday present.” Her smile snapped into horrified disapproval.

It was a ridiculously big, expensive and showy watch for an eleven-year-old, even of Warlock’s background. Aziraphale didn’t object again, to the watch or the endearment, especially when he noted the watch was a Bentley collaboration. He did make sure Crowley actually paid for it.

Darkness fell and it became colder and the world lit up around them, and eventually there was dinner and more drinking and being picked up by the Rolls, and the penthouse looked different at night, the city spread out below them like fairy lights, the fire crackling, and six thousand years to talk about.

“There’s only one bed,” Crowley said at last, getting to his feet. “But—"

“There’s eight other rooms to keep me occupied. Go right ahead."

Crowley hesitated, looking oddly terrified, then leaned down and hugged him. It was a brief, sharp embrace, all awkward arms around his shoulders and a chin pressed hard into the top of Aziraphale’s head, and over nearly as soon as it started, before he could decide whether he was supposed to hug back or not. Aziraphale found himself staring at the closed bedroom door for quite a while after Crowley had vanished, his thoughts scattered around him.

He eventually came back to himself and decided to while away the time with the library and overnight dining room service. Apparently they had a personal butler, and it was years since he had had a butler. Servants had been annoying, helpful in keeping the trivial miracles down, of course, but requiring a lot of tiresome pretending to keep suspicion away. Much easier to send them away from the penthouse.

The brown sugar panna cotta was creamy and delicious and Aziraphale muttered happily to himself, “Scrumptious,” and looked up at Crowley hovering in the living room doorway wearing nothing but black silk pyjama bottoms and a twisted expression.

“You do not,” said the demon in a strangled voice, “play fair.” He vanished in the direction of the bedroom again.

Aziraphale reflected on _my husband_ and _our kid_ and stocking seams and decided that was a completely unfair accusation. He was entitled to enjoy some pudding, and he did so.

It was lonely being alone with his own thoughts in a strange place. He never felt that way when surrounded by his own things. A few hours before dawn he decided to distract himself by investigating the bathrooms. The rock crystal LED lit sink in the powder room gave him the shudders, but the infinity bath in the master bathroom attracted him. Yes, he could understand the point of that. No careful calculating of displacement to fill it for maximum depth without causing irritating spillage. And—well, it was not like anyone would be flying past, but at least in the bathroom blinds could be drawn. Of course, it was _sinful_, wasting water like that, especially if he tried out the aromatherapy rain shower first… He gave it a longing look.

It was a very long time afterwards when he emerged, wrapped in a deliciously fluffy bathrobe, aware he was slightly pink from top to toe, hair in damp curls, and smelling of roses. He’d noted he had left the bathroom door open

Crowley was lying stomach-down on a couch in the living room again, still in his pyjama bottoms. His feet were bare, which answered a certain question about his shoes, although there was a faint tracery of what looked like reddish black scales along his ankles. He was staring at cartoons on his phone, which was something Aziraphale had never found appealing, and said as much.

Crowley lifted his head to look at him, and then let it drop back with an audible thud. “The bad guys keep digging holes to catch the heroes, and then they fall into them themselves,” he muttered. “Humans are incredibly insightful."

“I do find your train of thought hard to follow, sometimes," Aziraphale saida little coolly, remembering Crowley's response when he'd said something similar about evil and rocks of iniquity.

“Hhrgh."

Aziraphale hesitated, a little concerned. “My dear, are you feeling quite all right?” Crowley’s back was flushed, and his face looked odd, feverish spots of colour in his cheeks. He laid a cautious hand on Crowley’s bare shoulder, feeling unusual heat instead of the cool skin he was used to.

“Oh, I’m just tickety-boo.” He knocked Aziraphale’s hand away as if it had burned him.

“Perhaps you should sober up then,” Aziraphale said, a little sharply. That bit of nastiness, he thought, was uncalled for. “We have a lot of shopping to do today."

Crowley groaned, and buried his head in a throw pillow. Aziraphale decided to ignore him and get some clean clothes out of the wardrobe.

They were both in a better mood by the time breakfast arrived. Aziraphale was beginning to think he might have been tactless. It was entirely possible that Crowley had had a hand in developing cartoons, and while he maintained most of his inventions were to make human’s short lives miserable, he also had a habit of falling in love with his own infernal devices. He might have been feeling defensive, poor boy. His own holes, indeed.

To demonstrate repentance Aziraphale showed real appreciation for the breakfast Crowley had ordered for him while he was dressing, liking the change of having sweet things for breakfast, waffles and pancakes and berries. Aziraphale had perhaps _looked_ at the tea the afternoon before more transparently than he had realised, because Crowley had ordered him hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows instead. Crowley didn’t breakfast himself but drank copious amounts of coffee, draped backwards across his chair with his chin on his forearm, seemingly content to watch Aziraphale’s enjoyment. Despite his state of partial undress and all the exposed human skin, he seemed even more snakelike than usual, boneless and unnaturally still. Bright hair fell loose over his face.

“Are you going to get dressed, dear?” Aziraphale said at last. Weirdly enthralling as it was to watch Crowley watch _him_, he wanted to escape this place and get somewhere comfortable, with old books.

Crowley hissed something inaudible and went into the bedroom, which was strange enough in itself, as Aziraphale had expected him just to click his fingers. He was such a long time that Aziraphale knocked and went in. Crowley _had_ seemed feverish earlier. Aziraphale never got sick, but perhaps demons, shut away from Grace, did.

Crowley was revolving in front of a mirror, frowning. His jeans had been replaced with some odd asymmetrical things, exposing thin bare calves more on one side than another, and his shirts twisted and changed shapes, developing and losing lapels, puffed sleeves, soft velvet jackets, grandfather collars and v-necks. Aziraphale, watching him twist and turn, felt sudden relief.

He wasn’t the only one feeling like this was a new world with unknown rules, no longer playing the old, old game. And while it made him cling to the known even more so, taking comfort in his soft worn in clothes, Crowley was making a break. The makeup, the new city, the hair, the new clothes—he was starting over.

But he had brought Aziraphale with him. He would have had every excuse to break off contact, now he was presumably off Hell’s payroll and there was no real advantage to the Arrangement. Instead, he had insisted on the angel’s company and was lavishing him with attention, however prickly and capricious.

Crowley’s shirt became something of diaphanous black organza shot through with a faint red shimmer, with black embroidered snakes winding like lace through it, catching close to his waist in a feminine way. It was entirely unlike anything he had worn in Egypt, but felt similar to Aziraphale, somehow.

“That suits you,” he said softly, putting a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

He half expected to have his touch knocked back again, or a sarcastic remark or instant change of clothes. Crowley turned towards him, almost carefully, as if wanting not to disturb his hand. “Yeah?"

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, a little more fervently than he meant to, as he realised quite how revealing the fabric was over a thin but muscular chest and arms. “Perhaps a jacket as well, though.” He cleared his throat. “I can’t cope with _too_ much change at once, and you’ll freeze in that, so maybe the quilted leather jacket? I liked that. And jeans always suit you and never go out of fashion."

“Always the up-to-date fashion expert,” Crowley said sarcastically, but the jacket blossomed over his shoulders, and the strange trousers were replaced with jeans so tight he looked as if he had been poured into them. He passed his hand over his hair, the sideways braid returning on one side, and quirked an eyebrow. “Approve?"

“Yes, yes, I always like you with long hair,’ Aziraphale said encouragingly.

Crowley turned away from him again and stared contemplatively into the mirror. The shoes on his large feet became even more pointy-toed and the heels lifted and narrowed, until he was teetering even higher above Aziraphale, his calves stretched taut.

“Are you sure that’s a sensible idea, dear? You can barely walk straight as it is."

“Now, that’s just rude,” said Crowley, and then flung his head back and laughed, the fierce open laugh he rarely had, as if the universe was just too delightfully, ridiculously fun to be endured. “I’m practising so Warlock will recognise me.” He stared at their reflections again. "We really are an odd-looking couple,” he said, but the remnants of laughter were still on his face and his eyes were glittering, as he slipped his hand into the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow. “Come on, then, my angel, let’s bewilder and entertain the humans. I believe I promised to take my husband book shopping."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) It is beyond me how a New York tea house could charge $195 for afternoon tea and not even put the savouries on the bottom shelf. I am as shocked by this anarchy as Aziraphale. Random note: I once played a Chinese dating sim which _tested_ me on this in order to “get” the boy, who was a gangster, but apparently picky about his British tea etiquette.
> 
> 2) This was delayed because I did an insane amount of research on current gender-neutral high fashion trends in 2019 for a throwaway scene, only to decide that there’s no way Crowley would wear chunky sweaters or loose-fitting clothes anyway. See-through lace and organza shirts, though...
> 
> 3) I rather fancied Crowley in ballet flats, but there was a request for high heels, and I live to serve my beloved readers.


	4. All right, indeed!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes good on his promise to take Aziraphale book shopping.

Crowley’s sweet mood lasted almost exactly two hours, by which time the Rolls Royce Ghost was crowded with parcels.

“I can’t even see a pattern to these books,” he said with exasperation. “I thought you specialised. I can see the books on bookbinding, I suppose, but are you intending to set up a cooking school and take up taxidermy or something? And what the Heaven are you going to do with all these books about dinosaurs? Set up a pranks and hoaxes section?”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Aziraphale said happily, balancing on the top of a step ladder. He lovingly stroked the spine of _The World Before the Deluge_ before handing it down. “Add that to the basket, dear fellow."

Crowley ignored him, flipping open a picture book to a page with humans going to market on dinosaur back. “Look, you _know_ there were no dinosaurs in Ancient Sumer. We were there. I hope you’re not intending on giving this to our boy. He trust us implicitly, you know."

Aziraphale kept the book offered down until Crowley gave up and took it, putting it in the basket at his feet. “At least I can enjoy the view,” the demon muttered. “By the way, I don’t approve of the cut of your trousers. Far too baggy."

Aziraphale ignored him. “Perhaps I’m planning on buying some books I won’t like too much."

“Oh, I can see that. It’s not as if you're _petting_ them in some perverted excess of desire.” Aziraphale guiltily pulled his hand back from the shelf. “Please don’t tell me you’re dragging me around choosing books you don’t even _want_."

“The theory is sound. If I buy books I don’t—"

“Worship with blasphemous fervour,” said Crowley helpfully.

“Feel too sentimental about, I could actually sell some."

Crowley’s breath hissed, somewhere between shock and laughter. “Good luck with that plan.” He was quiet, as Aziraphale continued to scan the shelf. “Look, are you actually running short? Because you don’t need to worry about it. I have plenty of money."

“I’ve noticed,” Aziraphale said drily. “And I don’t want to know where it comes from. No, I just felt like I should find something to do with myself. Try running a business as a going concern."

“I suppose everything is worth trying at least once,” Crowley said slowly, sounding unwillingly fascinated. “We could, you know, even find out what books are worth in the market before you buy them, and whether you could sell them for a profit. It’s this theory I’ve seen humans come up with."

“You can’t put a price on knowledge, dear.” Aziraphale pursed his lips reproachfully.

“Well, so much for that idea. I suppose you wouldn’t let me influence people to buy whatever you want for whatever price you chose."

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale said. “That would be very wrong.”

“Well then, I look forward with great interest to observing your business ventures. Oh, don’t stand on your toes like that, you’re going to fall, for Hell’s sake. And that’s the last thing an angel should do."

“I can’t reach that high,” Aziraphale said plaintively, looking down sadly.

He expected Crowley to snap his fingers to bring the book to hand, but instead he sighed and said, “Come on down, then. I’ll get the blessed book.”

Aziraphale looked down to see a hand extended up to him, and bit his lip. He was perfectly capable of extending a stepladder unassisted, and it was on the tip of his tongue to point it out a bit waspishly. Self-sabotage. He reached out and felt cool fingers enfold his. He stepped down a bit less steadily than he would have by himself, especially since it forced him to descend facing forwards.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling despite himself, pressing the hand in his in return.

Crowley looked embarrassed and dropped his hand, and Aziraphale wondered if he would have been better off not mentioning the help. “Yeah.”

Crowley hurriedly stepped up the ladder, and Aziraphale noted that his jeans were both more velvety and more shimmery than before, and clung even more closely to the slim curve of his calves above his snakeskin heels. It reminded him of silk hose and fine wool breeches and Crowley teetering precariously but determinedly around on high heeled boots in other centuries, and he repressed an indulgent smile.

He looked up from the demon’s legs to meet an appropriately demonic grin. “I see you understand what I mean about views,” he said in a decidedly satisfied tone. Crowley hooked the book from the shelf and began to descend backwards, lowering his legs with an exaggerated sway of his hips. One step, two… Despite himself, Aziraphale watched with fascination.

Then Crowley’s heel turned under him, he swore, and tumbled off the stepladder before Aziraphale had a chance of breaking his fall, striking his head hard against the shelf on the way.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale fell to his knees in real agitation, his mind racing. They simply couldn’t afford to get discorporated until things settled down with their relative sides, and he had no idea if attempting to heal a badly injured demon would help or blast him to smithereens with misplaced Grace

He pulled Crowley’s head onto his lap, remembering too late how many books he had read advising him not to move injured people, and inspected his head anxiously. No blood, and those damned sunglasses were in his way, he couldn’t see Crowley's eyes, and would demon eyes dilate in the same way eyes with round pupils did anyway?

He waved the glasses away impatiently, and Crowley looked up at him. “I’m disappointed,” Crowley said.

“_What_?” Mingled anxiety and relief made Aziraphale's voice sharp.

“This is where you're supposed to think I’m unconscious or dying, plead with me never to leave you, and declare your undying love. Don’t you ever read anything?"

“Oh, _rubbish._” It was all too close to home, and all he could do not to drop Crowley’s head hard on the floor. Teasing him about something Crowley _must_ realise he was trying to approach at his own speed was just too much. He eased Crowley into a sitting position and tried to climb to his feet with least a little dignity.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he heard Crowley mutter, and Aziraphale's anger melted. “After all, you _are_ my husband, Francis,” he added more tauntingly.

“I must have forgotten,” Aziraphale said, the melted anger freezing completely over now. Really, Crowley was impossible.

Aziraphale turned back to the shelves. He had in fact been, a few minutes before, contemplating suggesting breaking for an early lunch, and even giving Crowley a complete reprieve as a reward for patience, but now he was damned if he would stop browsing until he was good and ready.

Crowley was quiet, so much so that, sometime later, Aziraphale was struck by anxiety and turned to check that the demon had not hurt himself more than he had realised. He didn’t see him at first, but searching around he finally noticed a huge dark shadow on gap on a high shelf in the stacks.

“Sulking?” he asked, but whatever Crowley’s intention had been when he transformed, he was now coiled up and fast asleep, or at least making a good imitation of it, given he couldn’t exactly close his eyes either way.

Aziraphale moved the stepladder closer and climbed up to him. In whichever form he was, Crowley really did make sleeping look attractive. Maybe he should think about trying it himself. After all, it was a new world and time to try new things.

He reached out and ran a finger down the snake’s coils. It occurred to him as he did so that it probably wasn’t a safe thing to do; he was pretty sure that Prince Lucifer would make sure any Fallen angel serpent under his rule would be equipped with deadly venom. Somehow, it seemed ridiculous to suppose that Crowley would strike him with ill intent, even if disturbed suddenly.

“You’ll cause a riot if anyone sees you like this, my dear,” he said gently. “If I ever want to come back here, it’s best that I am not associated with bringing in dangerous companions."

Crowley flicked out a lazy tongue, then slid up Aziraphale’s arm and coiled around him. Aziraphale took that to mean that their spat was over, and that whatever either of them had said or done, they were mutually forgiven. “I’m alwayss dangerouss,” Crowley hissed in his ear.

“So long as you don’t obviously look it,” Aziraphale said mildly. He climbed down carefully, given that Crowley in snake form was no light burden. He supported Crowley gently as he unwound and slipped his tail to the ground, transforming back into his usual form. This resolved into standing with his hands gently clasping each of Crowley’s forearms, as they stood and looked confusedly at each other.

“Your head doesn’t hurt? Or your back? Or your ankle?"

“All fine, thankss.” Crowley was still hissing a little. He materialised a new pair of sunglasses.

Aziraphale hesitated a moment, then darted in and left a quick kiss on Crowley’s cheek before hastily turning away. Apology, he thought, or token of reconciled friendship, or concern, or thanks for the morning. Something. Possibly undying love, but he wasn’t ready to bring that up right now.

He picked up the basket. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to lunch."

He was nearly to the door before he heard the click of heels following him, in hurried steps. He was almost sure he heard a stumble and the sounds of a demon hastily righting himself. Probably best not to comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Okay, guys, I tried to work in “Crowley falls into Aziraphale’s waiting arms” for you, but he missed.


	5. Every bed has a right and a wrong side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is only one bed.
> 
> Not that Aziraphale sleeps anyway. But Crowley is stubborn.

Aziraphale didn’t understand why a private hotel suite would require a room with an indoor waterfall. It did make quite a pleasant place to read. It was hard to settle properly with a demon maternally fussing around showing him how everything worked, even if it was secretly a relief to not have to figure it out himself. Gadgets and doodads weren’t his thing.

Once Crowley had saturated the air with ylang-ylang and sandalwood to his apparent satisfaction, which meant to a degree that meant Aziraphale was quite glad he didn’t technically need to breathe, and had set _Manon_ playing at the exact right level through the hidden speakers, Aziraphale expected him to head for bed.

Instead, he loitered around, and flicked through some of the new books, making disparaging comments. Aziraphale ignored him. He quite enjoyed the grumbling, really, and when he realised it had been replaced by strange splashing noises interfering with soothing whisper of the waterfall, he looked up.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing?"

“Tessting if ssnakess can sswim up waterfallss.” A louder splash announced that they probably could not.

“If you’re _that_ bored, go to bed."

“Can’t ssleep properly alone."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and Crowley transformed back and perched on the edge of the waterfall, looking drenched and sheepish, the ridiculous and pretty silk organza shirt glued to his skin. “Well, I mean, I can, obviously."

“For _years_, if I recall correctly,” said Aziraphale, a little bitterly. No one could sulk quite as wholeheartedly as a demon trying to prove he had more than one friend.

“But not with you around,” said Crowley, looking even more sheepish, if sheep could glower and blush. Perhaps a goat, which was more suitably Satanic. His long damp hair was silky and frizzy enough to be mohair right now, sticking to his forehead in a way that begged to be pushed away. “I’m not used to having anyone in my space while I sleep. Keep wondering what you’re doing."

“Reading,” Aziraphale pointed out. “And will be for some time. I promise I wouldn't smite you in your sleep, even if I still had my sword. Can you sleep now?"

“You’re reading _now_. But I can’t trust you. If I got up and checked, you might be taking a _bath_ again.” Crowley looked far more aggrieved than Aziraphale felt the situation called for. “Or—or—looking up and saying 'scrumptious’ but actually you mean a blessed pudding. "

“What else would I mean?"

Crowley growled under his breath.

“Look, I don’t know what you expect me to do about it, dear boy,” Aziraphale said reasonably. “Do you want me to file a schedule of my nightly activities with you?"

Crowley stared very hard at his own bare feet. “Could come stay with me while I sleep. I mean, you could read there. You’d like the bed. It has 22 carat gold thread in the bedspread."

“That makes it more comfortable, I suppose."

“You _love_ gold, angel."

Aziraphale fiddled guiltily with his signet ring. “Is this really what you want?" After all, Crowley had been putting himself out terribly to please him. Perhaps Azirphale was being self-centred.

“You could read to me,” said Crowley, as if offering a huge and unexpected treat. “Anything you like."

“Really?” Aziraphale thought it over. “Any book I like?"

“Well, within reason,” Crowley said hastily. "No theology or books on book-binding. I used to read to Warlock. Helped him sleep. Maybe I’m feeling sentimental because we’re seeing him tomorrow."

“Are we?"

“Yeah, forgot to say." Crowley looked completely guileless, which was always a bad sign.

“Hmm.” Aziraphale felt that he was on the point of agreeing to something risky. Bed, well, sharing a bed in a hotel had all kinds of associations he wasn’t sure he was ready for. It wasn’t that he thought he was so terribly irresistible that Crowley wouldn’t be able to help himself, but for his own part, his feelings—

Well, love was one of them. Love was easy to admit. He was _supposed_ to love everybody, even the Fallen, even if no one else in Heaven seemed to bother with that principle much. Loving Crowley was simple, even if telling him so was not. Liking was more difficult, because it was _personal_ and suggested actually being attached to specific things about someone and them being special to one in a way other people weren't, and if that person was a demon and wicked and rebellious by nature it meant that one was probably liking things one really shouldn’t. And _trusting_, that was foolish, even if long, long ago he had started only checking in with Crowley to see that he hadn’t done really terrible things in order to be reassured that he hadn’t. Somehow they had reached a point at which even Aziraphale felt comfortable admitting he liked and trusted and even understood Crowley better than any other Creation. Aesthetic admiration of a well-designed human-like form, that was probably fine too. Probably. Admiring the handiwork of the Almighty--Satan. Well, maybe not all that fine under those circumstances, but understandable.

Past that it got into more difficult territory, because then there was _longing_, to see someone and touch their hair and share little signs of affection, and possibly even _wanting_ a lot more than that, and that whole perilous feeling of being on the edge of a cliff and not knowing if his wings would work.

“You’d better dry off first,” he said, trying to be stern. “I’m not used to lying in damp sheets."

“Oh, _angel_,” said Crowley, who for some inexplicable reason seemed to find that hilarious. He snapped his fingers and was perfectly dry, hair loose and shining, wearing nothing but the black silk pyjama bottoms. “Better?"

“Splendid,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley made an inarticulate noise that managed to somehow sound irritated, smug and despairing all at once. Aziraphale wondered if they taught spluttering as a communication technique in Hell.

“I don’t suppose you brought nightwear,” Crowley said once he had apparently regained words. “You’re unlikely to get in trouble for frivolous miracles right now, anyway."

“I’m not so sure about that,” Aziraphale said, sighing. “I’m not sure about _anything_. Do you think Gabriel would give up the chance to write chiding notes just because he failed to extinguish me?” They hadn’t really touched on that until now, their actual futures after this strange holiday, and Crowley’s face darkened. He had, of course, a lot more to lose—at least extinction would be quick. Aziraphale hastened to drop the subject. “In any case, I _did_ bring nightwear."

“Why?"

“Hotel staff expect to see all kinds of clothes,” Aziraphale said patiently. “And toothbrushes and things."

“They’ve never mentioned it to me."

“They probably think you’re just running drug deals out of your room. Or offering a Real Boyfriend Experience."

“Oh, _that’s_ an angelic thing to say." Crowley gave him the kind of dazzling grin he exploded into when Aziraphale said something unexpectedly rude to him. “What role does that cast you in, my sugar daddy? Come on, Aziraphale, I want to see your pyjamas. Or is it a night shirt? I have a terrible feeling about this.” He trailed after Aziraphale into the bedroom and dropped into the bed.

Aziraphale was feeling a bit uncertain, now it come to it. Modesty was a strange concern that had happened to humans after the Apple, but he had been living among humans a long time, and it had a certain effect on your habits of thought. Of course, it wasn’t as if Crowley hadn’t seen him in a state of undress many times before over the millennia. There was no reason to be self-conscious, just because they were alone together and Crowley was lying back on the pillows, hands behind his head, watching him with the unnecessarily intent, serpentine stare he had sometimes and a faint smile on his lips.

He went to the first of the gigantic wardrobes, pulled out his never-used pyjamas and dressing gown and changed with calm deliberation, refusing to be unnerved. When he turned around at last, Crowley was lying on his side, staring at his phone. Aziraphale felt melodramatic and slightly deflated.

“Could be worse,” Crowley said, turning back and taking in the white piping on the crisp cotton poplin pyjamas and the softness of the beige velour robe. “Nice classic styling. One day I’ll ask you why you don’t wear pure white anymore."

Aziraphale, who felt it was both obvious and not something he really wanted to talk about, decided to concentrate on the rare approval of his fashion choices. The nightwear set had been quite expensive for something he had never actually planned on wearing. He smiled shyly.

Crowley jumped up, which took Aziraphale by surprise. It was only to pull back the bedspread, which did indeed glitter with real gold. “Ditch the robe, though, you’ll overheat under this."

Aziraphale’s hands fluttered. “I wasn’t actually expecting to get under the covers."

“If you lie on top and I'll lie under, I’ll feel trapped,” Crowley said. “I’d be really sorry if I accidentally bit you in my sleep. Stop fussing and choose a book, I want to sleep."

Regretting the whole escapade, Aziraphale fetched _The World Before the Deluge_, partly to be annoying, and partly because one of the last times they had seen Warlock was when he was at the Crystal Palace sneering at dinosaur statues looking very like the ones in the book. He awkwardly clambered onto the bed and sat with his back on a pile of oversized pillows, opened the book, and ran a finger down a plate of fighting dinosaurs.

“I’m glad we didn’t kill the child,” he said softly.

“See, you’re being a better father already. Especially since he wasn’t the Antichrist.” Crowley’s tone was mocking, but then he said more tenderly. “Yeah, me too. You never would have forgiven me if I’d convinced you, never would have spoken to me again. Can’t really make it up to either of you, but—thanks for coming.” He sat beside Aziraphale, pulled the covers over both of them up to the waist, then unexpectedly settled right next to Aziraphale on the huge bed, leaning against his side. “You really are going to roast, but this feels nice.” He rubbed his face against the velour on Aziraphale’s plump shoulder. “Read me to sleep."

Aziraphale turned to his bookmark. "In the Primary epoch the living Creation was in its infancy. No Mammals then roamed the forests; no bird had yet displayed its wings. Without Mammals, therefore, there was no maternal instinct; none of the soft affections which are, with animals, as it were, the precursors of intelligence."

Crowley snorted. “Soft affections. The things I’ve seen mammals do, including the intelligent ones. Eating their own children, for a start. Everything from cats to humans."

“Hush and go to sleep,” Aziraphale said, looking at the hand curling up around his sleeve, and wondering if a serpent demon’s corporeal form was more mammal or reptile, because either way there seemed to be a delightful and somewhat terrifying amount of soft affections emerging from him. And no more waiting for a trap, ever. Not after seeing Crowley defy Hell.

Aziraphale quickly lost himself in the beauty of the writing, in the delicate woodcuts, in the endearing, wonderful instinct of humans to try and make sense and logic of a world that was basically ineffable, a game that Aziraphale tried not to suspect was loaded against them. When he reached the first mentions of mammoth bones being mistaken for giants, he expected Crowley to scoff and start reminiscing about the Nephelim. He looked down in surprise at the lack of comment, and realised Crowley was fast asleep, slumped against him, hand locked around his arm.

“What exactly are we to each other now we’re not Adversaries?” Aziraphale whispered. There was no answer.

Aziraphale put down the book carefully and miracled away his robe, which really was getting far too warm, back into the wardrobe. Just one little use of magic, it was fine, and he suspected that if anyone from Heaven was checking up on him right now they would not be as astounded as they previously would have been to find him literally in bed with a demon. He tried to slide Crowley down into a more comfortable sleeping position on the bed without waking him. It was more awkward and difficult than he thought it would be, especially with one of his own arms held in a death grip, and he ended up wriggling down the bed and missing the pillows completely himself, head on the mattress.

All right. All he had to do was loosen Crowley’s arm, then he could sit up and go on with his book. He pried the fingers away with his spare hand, very gently, but before he could clamber up again, Crowley grunted and rolled and put his head on Aziraphale’s chest, arm flung over him.

_Right._

He could push him off and sit up. But Crowley was often impossibly grumpy when woken, and it was so very warm and comfortable, lying under the cover with the weight on his chest. The demon had often sung the virtues—well, vices—of Sloth, praising Belthegor as the only one of the Princes of Hell really worth getting to know, and sleep as one of the pleasures of the world. Of course it was Crowley's job to tempt with the cardinal sins, but he did seem to genuinely adore sleeping. There was a kind of delicious languor tugging at Aziraphale’s mind and eyelids, which was all tied up with the clinging demon. Crowley wasn’t flinging himself around or kicking or muttering, he seemed so contented, and it was hard not to be envious of his complete relaxation.

Crowley could tempt even in his _sleep_. It was an infernal talent.

Aziraphale waved the lights off, closed his eyes, and for the first time in his existence, slept.

He wasn’t sure how long it was until he woke. He had turned onto his side somehow, and Crowley’s head was still nestled against his chest, arms wrapped around his waist. They were pressed closely together, and at some point Aziraphale’s sleeping body must have automatically responded to the embrace, because his arms were around Crowley and, he realised with horror as he came fully to consciousness, his fingers were drowsily tracing a bare spine as naturally if he was stroking his serpent’s form. No. Stroking a lover.

All Aziraphale’s scattered emotions about liking and loving and longing twisted together into the overwhelming acknowledgement of _craving_, and he trembled as he carefully detached himself from the embrace. Crowley muttered something, without seeming to wake. Aziraphale moved right to the other side of the bed, and determinedly picked up his book.

His angelic eyes could see enough to read in the dark, but the black shapes on the page refused to resolve into words and pictures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) _Manon_ involves a woman seducing a man about to become a priest into running away with her instead. Crowley has all the subtlety of a herd of mammoths, which were obviously just Nephelim anyway. But. There’s a gavotte! Such a kind snake.
> 
> 2) It is probably ridiculous how long my wife and I spent picking out ludicrously expensive pyjamas for Aziraphale only in order to be defeated by beige jammies being completely out of style. Still. I have the best wife.
> 
> 3) Quote from Louis Figieur, _The World Before the Deluge_, 1872. Wonderful source for Victorian ideas of dinosaurs, which of course never existed in the whole 6,000 years of the world’s history. Assuming Aziraphale was reading in translation, as he’s lazy about spoken French.


	6. With chaos in her wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter from Heaven and a visit on Earth.

It was a long and difficult night, and only the awareness that angels were supposed to keep their word kept Aziraphale in the bed.

Crowley’s restlessness only seemed to ease when he latched on to something else, and Aziraphale soon realised that moving further to the right only resulted in being crammed on the edge while being chased by a sleeping demon. At one point, too precariously perched on his side with a demon flattened against his back, he actually fell out and got back in again on the completely empty left side. Crowley rolled straight back over and landed with his head on Aziraphale’s chest, trapping Aziraphale’s arm under him.

He sighed. It was all very well to tell himself that giving into an urge to snuggle up to someone who was asleep and had no say in the matter was a sinful thing to do, especially if one was acknowledging lustful feelings towards them, but warmth-seeking serpent behaviour seemed instinctive.

“Do get off, dear boy,” he said, shaking Crowley’s shoulder gently, wary of startling him awake and being flipped over again. “I’ll be all pins and needles."

Crowley raised his head slightly, and golden eyes blinked slowly at Aziraphale. “Soft,” Crowley said wonderingly, eyes closing again, and wriggled a bit so that his head was more on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The angel’s arm instinctively curved around him in a less arm-deadening way. Crowley let out a quiet snore, and Aziraphale sighed. He wasn’t sure if Crowley had in fact woken at all. But now Aziraphale had an arm draped across his waist to contend with, fingers brushing one well-padded hip, and his own hand on bare skin again. Crowley’s skin felt warm against him, as if he had pulled heat from Aziraphale.

Wary of sleeping again, Aziraphale tried to pass the time cataloguing his new acquisitions in his mind. He wasn’t going to risk waking in an even more compromising position again. Not until they had _talked._ And no, it was hopeless, he couldn’t think of even books, not when his mind was far more interested in cataloguing every affectionate look and suggestive word Crowley had ever given him and trying to work out what added up to teasing, what added up to friendship, what was just general demonic chaos, and what might add up to something more.

With the coming of dawn spreading across those huge windows, a piece of parchment floated down from the ceiling. Aziraphale reached out his spare hand, caught it, and summoned all his courage to read it. Well, that was that. He felt a sickening plummet of loss, but then a huge sense of relief. He folded it as best he could with one hand and placed it in his pyjama breast pocket.

The movement finally woke Crowley, who muttered something inarticulate and pushed himself to a sitting position, as Aziraphale dropped the hand that had been absently cradling his back.

“Ouch,” said Aziraphale, getting the full weight of a demon channelled through a hand on the soft area of his hip.

“Sorry. Morning, angel.” Crowley peered around at the arm lying behind him, as if trying to work out what position they had been sleeing in, and Aziraphale held his breath. Crowley was flushed, and Aziraphale wondered if he was overheated. “I want a shower. Order breakfast for us? Lots of coffee."

He swung quickly out of bed and disappeared in the direction of the master bathroom before Aziraphale could gather himself enough to even think of starting one of the confessions he had been rehearsing in his head.

Aziraphale took his time choosing and ordering breakfast. Really, the bathroom was the best of this place, so he didn’t expect to see Crowley for a while. The aromatherapy rain shower was extremely enjoyable, as Aziraphale had discovered the night before. He knew from experience that once Crowley found anything that had the magic hat trick of pleasurable, lazy and warm, it took ages to drag him from it, whether it was a sunny beach in Thailand or a hammam in the Ottoman Empire.

Aziraphale tried to focus on the sky, and the ever changing colours and movement of sunrise, from flame to dull blue, and not on the night before or that note in his pocket.

When the breakfast had long been wheeled in on a silver platter and laid out and there was still no sign of Crowley, Aziraphale went and tapped on the door. No answer.

Aziraphale leaned his head against the door. He could go in. He _could_. So, Crowley was probably naked in the shower right now. He’d seen him before. And, well—it might precipitate things in the direction he wanted them to go anyway. Or it could be endurably awkward and painful, and they were supposed to be seeing Warlock today.

He knocked more loudly.

“Yeah?” Crowley sounded strangely hoarse.

“Breakfast."

“Yeah, okay. Be right out.”

Aziraphale felt vaguely concerned by the odd tone, but he went and started on the lemon ricotta pancakes. A short while after Crowley swished out, heels even higher, sparkling skirt fluttering at mid thighs, tailored bodice cut low and hair in a neatly curled bob.

“I don’t think that skirt and neckline will pass muster for a nanny, dear,” Aziraphale said mildly.

“I’ve retired to get married.” She sank into her chair and crossed her legs primly, the skirt falling to expose even more thigh below the garters of her stockings.

“On a gardener’s pay?"

Crowley rolled her eyes, always an interesting process when she was the one doing so. Her outfit became more reasonable for working class day wear for the no longer terribly young, the skirt lengthening and the neckline rising, a modest red scarf tied around her neck. “Just trying to give you some eye candy as a thank you for reading to me last night.” She reached for the lobster omelette. “You’re no fun at all."

Aziraphale tried to concentrate on his rather good tea. Crowley made few concessions when she changed configuration, so to speak. She was still lanky and large of hand and feet, firm jawed and heavy browed, knees bony and oddly vulnerable in her well-shaped legs Really, the biggest visible difference, except for the small breasts now hidden under her bodice, was that her posture improved, and perhaps that was just getting back into character as the tightly controlled Astoreth. Either through familiarity, laziness or vanity, Crowley tended to stay pretty close to her original “human" appearance through the ages, whichever sex and hairstyle she chose. It was always, after all, an attractive form.

Aziraphale felt he would have preferred this morning’s Crowley to look less similar to the half-naked body that had lain in his arms the night before, so that he could keep his mind off all that uncomfortable yearning. Then, he supposed, Warlock wouldn’t have recognised his Nanny.

They ate together in silence for a while. Then Crowley asked sharply, “Going to tell me why you’re not talking my ears off?"

He shrugged, fished out the parchment and handed it over. Crowley’s eyes became narrow slits as she read it.

“New supervisors. Could be worse,” she said at last. The parchment fluttered in her hand, and she put it down with a sharp movement. “The recording angels aren’t my personal cup of tea, but I’m glad you have a new team."

“I couldn’t really stay with them after what happened. I do wonder why I don’t seem to actually be punished or cast out, if they’re going to acknowledge me at all."

“They’ve only acknowledged a failure in carrying out your duties as a soldier, and let’s face it, you were always a rotten soldier. Lucky for them, and you, that all your other acts of defiance and your execution were off the record and they can pretend they only have to make an example of you for cowardice.”

“The Metatron always makes me feel like I’m a newly created fledgling,” Aziraphale complained gently. He didn’t really know how to speak of the loss of the only team he had known for six thousand years.

“Better than his little brother. One day, I’ll _get_ Sandalphon over Gomorrah.” Crowley suddenly reached out and grasped Aziraphale’s hand, cup handle and all, in a convulsive grip. Hot tea splashed onto both their hands. Neither moved. “What matters is that you’re not being recalled to Heaven. Thank—“ Her mouth worked, and she said, as speaking the words hurt her but she was determined to get them out, “Thank _God._"

“Quite literally, I should say.” His heart was battering at his ribcage. There was a desperation in the grasp on his, and he hadn’t had the least idea that Crowley had been fretting so much. “I wouldn’t have gone back, you know. If it came to it, I would—well. I hear Alpha Centauri is nice at this time of year, if you have company.” He couldn’t bear to look at her, too terrified to see what expression she might be wearing. "In any case, I’m not so sure it _isn’t_ an attempt to give me a highly personal Hell. You have no idea how much the recording angels love paperwork."

“You’re telling me? I work for Dagon. Straight out of that team.” Her grip hadn’t relaxed.

“Of course. They haven’t changed all that much since Falling, have they?” He was lying. He remembered the unpleasant shock of seeing his old friend in Hell, fish scales gleaming on their skin, elated at the idea of watching the murder of a fallen fellow angel.

Crowley laughed, looking giddy and drunk, although she’d only had coffee. “I’ll help you with the paperwork. I’ll help you with _anything_. Long live the Arrangement.” Finally turning to look at her clear joy, Aziraphale realised that the loss of his team didn’t really matter one little bit. He could feel tears swimming in his eyes, and he couldn't stop smiling.

Crowley released his hand at last, picking up a napkin to dab maternally at the tea she had split on his hand. “Come on, darling. Let’s go see our boy and celebrate."

Well. One more trivial miracle. His holiday was over, after all, if he had understood the memo properly.

Crowley winced and wrinkled her nose. “How can you bear to make your face look so ridiculous? You’re so beautiful, angel.”

Aziraphale realised he was gaping at her, and that she had turned bright red and looked like she wanted to snatch back the words. He looked away. He never had cared, really, whether his form matched current fashions and standards of attractiveness in any particular place. They changed too often to bother with, anyway. But something about the way Crowley had said _beautiful_ struck him hard.

“Sorry,” said Crowley. “I know you always loved those awful music hall shows. You dragged me to enough of them. You must have been dying to try out the role of a comic rustic.” She must have been feeling very unsettled by the memo to be apologising rather than teasing, Aziraphale thought.

“You enjoyed them too."

“Really, angel? Can you ever remember me laughing, even once?"

“I’m sure you were internally very amused, and just too—_cool_—to show it. And you know all the alcohol and half-dressed young ladies gave you plenty of chances to spread sin and discord."

“That’s true. I mean, the second part is.” Aziraphale decided he had given her enough of a chance to restore her equanimity and turned back. She had settled dark spectacles on her nose, with a severe expression to match, which suddenly dissolved into a more familiar toothy grin. “Do you have _any_ idea what you sound like when you say ‘cool’ like that? You—you—_oh_.” She seemed to run out of words, and made one of her incoherent noises instead, hand flapping. "Come on, my love, time to see our boy."

They had a brief dispute over the method of transportation. Aziraphale was adamant that a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce Ghost was a completely unsuitable form of transportation for a former nanny and gardener. Crowley was equally adamant that she wasn’t going near any bloody subway, the London Underground was bad enough, or any taxi that had been used by heaven knows who or what. Besides, _Aziraphale_ didn’t have to walk in these shoes, she always knew angels were sadistic bastards but really there had to be limits to even _their_ cruelty.

“The chauffeur won’t recognise us,” Aziraphale said reasonably. “As a matter of fact, we shouldn’t have changed before we went down. Even with the private lift, someone might notice we are the wrong couple when we leave."

Crowley gave him a most un-Astoreth like smirk, and took his hand. “They won’t notice a single difference,” she said smugly. “Just the same exceptionally handsome and stylish young man and his lucky sugar daddy husband. Am I a demon who can do magic or not?"

“You are."

“Then stop fussing."

Aziraphale reflected that conceding this single point did not actually meant he conceded the Rolls, but Crowley’s fingers were laced loosely in his, and somehow he didn’t raise the argument.

She kept her hand in his until he handed her into the Rolls, playing up courtliness himself, and she sat there for a moment, smiling at him through scarlet lips, still clasping his hand. He noticed that the red polish on her nails shone like huge snake scales as he lifted the hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. She stared at him over their joined hands.

“Don’t be betwaddled, maid. Just getting into character.” Azirphale beamed at her.

Crowley glared at him, high cheekbones flushed under her makeup. “I _hate_ you."

There was no more handholding, just an offended silence until they reached Harriet Dowling’s residence while her husband was in the Middle East. It wasn’t quite as impressive as the official residence in Regent Park, and Aziraphale felt that after their hotel suite anything would look acceptably modest. Still, it was a lovely place, and the Rolls didn’t look out of place.

“It looks like a taxi to anyone looking, angel,” Crowley sighed, before he could ask. She slipped her hand into his again as they approached the house, and Aziraphale felt oddly nervous, until he heard a glad cry and a child running around the corner.

“_Nanny!_ Brother Francis! You did come!"

Crowley released Aziraphale’s hand and dropped to one stockinged knee, putting her arms tightly around Warlock. “My little darling,” she crooned, despite the fact that he wasn’t as little as all that. “I’ve missed you."

“Nanny, why didn’t you say goodbye? Why didn’t you come to my birthday?"

_Because she thought she might have to manipulate me into murdering you and sending you to your Big Daddy in Hell. There was no point in wasting any more attention or emotion on you,_ Aziraphale thought resentfully, watching Crowley apparently cuddling guilt-free.

“I’m sorry, darling. I fell in love.” Crowley simpered with theatrical coyness.

“Nanny, you said romantic love was an illusion to excuse carnal lust."

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with cultivating carnal lust, possum."

“_Astoreth_! He’s eleven!"

Speaking brought Warlock’s attention back to him, and he was both guilty and a little delighted to receive a hug as well. Warlock could be a difficult child, but he had his points.

“Alright, me handsome?” He kissed the boy’s handsome cheek.

“Love is better than wine, isn’t that right, Brother Francis?"

“I doubt that Francis thinks _anything_ is better than wine,” Crowley said coldly. As Warlock brought them into the house, Crowley hissed into Aziraphale’s ear, “Oh, good choice, bring him up on the Song of Solomon. A thousand wives and concubines would have been just about right for my Lord’s son. Sure you remembered which side you were supposed to be on?” She swept ahead and took Warlock’s hand. “Now, darling, tell me all about your trip to the Jezreel Valley. Did you really tell the guide he smelled like poo?"

“Yep!"

“Good choice. You make Nanny so proud. Telling him he smelled like shit might make him think he only smelled bad in general ways, but poo can’t be misunderstood."

“That’s what I thought. He was creepy. I mean, not good creepy like you. Dumb creepy."

“You warm my heart."

The Song of Solomon. He hadn’t actually quoted much of it to Warlock For all he was both a Bible collector and an angel, he saw the Bible as a sometimes amusing and highly inaccurate account of sometimes extraordinarily painful memories. Funny that he had used that line, and that Warlock had remembered it. What had he been thinking of at the time?

He watched Crowley, hand-in-hand with Warlock, walking in that hips-first way she had in which her feet seemed to randomly encounter the ground in all kinds of directions, and some more of the words came to his mind:

_This is my beloved, and this is my friend._


	7. Something is brewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice married couple.

“How good to see you. We’ve been expecting you.” Harriet Dowling extended an elegant hand almost as well-manicured as Aziraphale’s usually was, and smiled at the room. Morning tea, which was one of the few things about Australia of which Aziraphale approved, was set out, and he wondered why. Then he realised that one of the ladies there was the daughter of the Australian ambassador, and that Mrs Dowling had actually invited her renegade ex-Nanny and ex-gardener to the same morning tea party as her important guests.

She could be a bitch, as Crowley always approvingly said, but she could also be disarmingly democratic and _nice_. Humans. You couldn’t trust them to jump in any particular direction.

“This is Ms Astoreth Harrison and Brother Francis Cortese."

“Ms Harrison-Cortese,” Crowley said firmly, smiling at the room like the snake who ate the canary. “Call me Astoreth."

“Oh! Congratulations,” Harriet said blinking. “Is that why—"

“I’m afraid Francis doesn’t believe in conjugal relations before marriage, so we got impatient and just ran away,” Crowley said blithely, putting the arm that wasn’t around Warlock around Aziraphale’s hips and squeezing, rather too low for decorum. “My apologies for the lack of notice."

“Oh. Oh my,” Harriet said, looking from one to the other in stark amazement, clearly wondering about the appeal from either side. “Isn’t life funny? But Brother Francis, aren’t you a monk?"

“Easy mistake to make, me lass,” he said breezily, kicking Crowley’s shin discreetly to make her release her grasp on his buttock. She grinned and swept Warlock off to a corner with a plate of cakes. “I’m a lay brother in a very small sect, see, the Guardians of the Eastern Gate.”

“Tiny,” hissed Crowley, around a slice of carrot cake. “And inclined to give everything away."

“How interesting! Well, Brother Francis was the best gardener I ever had,” Harriet told the room. “It was like the flowers bloomed out of sheer love the moment he looked at them. An absolute treasure. Why, they even flowered completely out of season."

“A disgraceful lack of discipline and respect,” muttered Crowley.

“Are you moving to America, then?” one of the guests asked hopefully.

“No, nothing could drag us from home for long. We just dropped in to give our respects and make our announcement, and bring our sweet boy his birthday present,” Crowley said.

“What present? I want it now!"

Crowley pulled out the watch box, while Harriet sighed at her son’s rudeness and introduced Aziraphale around. He tried to make small talk about gardening, and—well, he supposed he was back on the job.

He discreetly surveyed the humans’ minds. The Ambassador’s daughter really wanted to go back to Australia, she must be insane, but maybe she just needed a little push to start making plans and stop dreaming and waiting for other people to arrange it. The dear lady there was so desperately praying to maintain a pregnancy after several failures, her grief and fear and hope were almost tangible, and she would do better with this one if her body released just a _little_ more progesterone. That lady really should think about calling her best friend and making amends, she was so sad, all she needed was the thought to pop into her mind, and then it would be up to her...

Aziraphale had forgotten just how _good_ doing his job felt.

He was rather distracted by the conversation in the corner.

“It was the best party ever! We all had water guns and we shot all the security, they didn’t know what to do, and everyone threw food. It was awesome! Except for the magician, he was shit."

“Language, Warlock!” Harriet said. “It was very kind of him to come despite the tube strike."

“Nothing as painful as watching a bad conjurer,” Crowley sympathised, fastening the watch around the boy’s wrist. “You just want to die on their behalf to save them suffering, don’t you? Or kill them. Put them out of your misery. Stop them inflicting pointless death on their stage props. One life taken, another saved."

“There was a red-headed waiter with sunglasses that looked just like you, Nanny. I shot him with my water gun."

“Lovely work! Can’t have people going around stealing my style. He must have been very good looking, though."

“I suppose he was okay for a really old guy."

Aziraphale brightened. He didn’t dare look at Crowley.

“When you rule the world, you can make stage magic outlawed on pain of death,” said Crowley, who seemed to be falling straight back into old habits. “Won’t that be nice, darling?” The final question seemed aimed at Aziraphale.

“When he rules the world?” asked one of the other guests. “She’s a very unusual Nanny, isn’t she?"

“Astoreth believes in building up kiddies' pride and teaching them that they can do anything they dream if they visualise it,” Aziraphale explained hurriedly.

“How _charming._ You’re sure that you can’t be convinced to stay on in America? My little Hannah could do with a bit of killer instinct.” The lady laughed merrily.

“Nanny says kill—"

“Hush, sweetie,” Crowley said swiftly, before anything too incriminating could come out of Warlock’s mouth. “I think we’ll have to get the wrist band reduced for a bit. There—that’s better. It’s a very special watch. It will grow with you."

“What a beautiful watch!” Harriet said. “That’s really very generous."

“It’s a Bentley. Nanny taught me all about Bentleys.” Crowley beamed affectionately at him. “I want a Bentley car for my sixteenth birthday."

“We’ll talk about it then."

“Nanny says if I don’t get everything I want, then--"

“Right-o, then,” Aziraphale said hastily, and drained his cup. “Let’s be getting on then, me lover."

Crowley turned red. “Fine, _angel._” She rose to her feet. “It really has been wonderful, but my husband and I must be getting along.” She tucked her hand in Aziraphale’s elbow.

“You’re clearly wonderful with children,” said Hannah’s mother kindly. “Are you planning on having any yourself?"

“Well, who knows. Might have fun trying. Practice makes perfect, as they say,” Crowley said brightly, and bent down and kissed Aziraphale full on the lips, her mouth soft and sticky with lipstick. “Mrs Dowling, thank you so much for letting us see our darling Warlock again."

Aziraphale stared at her.

“No, don’t go!” wailed Warlock. "I haven’t shown Brother Francis my herb garden. And I haven’t shown you my new game. The reviews said it was the most disgusting thing they’ve ever played and it should have been refused classification. It’s lit."

“Maybe you could play it with me online, possum. We’ll do some slaughter and mayhem together.” She looked suddenly unsure. “If that’s all right? We’d like to stay in touch with him, Mrs Dowling. Online? We miss him very much."

“That would be lovely,” Harriet said, clearly touched. “I’ll text you his details. And please visit again before you go home."

They hugged Warlock goodbye, and Harriet, unexpectedly, kissed them both of the doorstep. “What an adorable couple you make,” she said, apparently having adjusted her initial bafflement. “Thank you for being such a good and loving influence on Warlock."

“Good influence,” muttered Crowley, as the door closed behind her. "I don’t see that you had much _good_ influence on him at all. He’s all me. Lucky he _didn’t_ turn out to be the Antichrist."

“What about loving influences?” snapped Aziraphale, as they made their way to the waiting Rolls. “Don’t you ever feel guilty about _anything_?"

“Guilt is not my job, angel.” She glanced around, fingers to her forehead, and her form and clothes melted a bit, hair becoming looser and less structured, the braid returning. His velvety jeans and the organza top were now topped with a silk double jacket with a deep V-neck, nipped tight around his waist to make a feminine line, red silk showing as pocket lining. “I can argue with you better like this, for some reason. The makeup stays, though, I rather fancy it. By the way, you have smudges all over your mouth. I need to work on making it kiss-proof."

Aziraphale ignored the swipe and changed as well, with a sigh of relief. That rosacea and whiskers were uncomfortable, not to mention having too many teeth for his mouth.

“Have you ever thought,” he asked coldly, “what the consequences for the boy might have been when he turned out to be the wrong child? Or were you too focused on your own survival?"

“What about you?"

“I couldn’t intervene in Hellish plans!"

“Neither could I!” Crowley snapped. He sighed, suddenly. “Look, we’re not supposed to have free will, of course we stuff up. And, yeah, I would happily have sacrificed Warlock to save the world. Still would. Humans don’t live all that long anyway, _you_ know that. You were perfectly willing to kill Adam when it came down to it. They all die, they become lost souls or go to the City, and then there’s just _us_. It’s like worrying about butterflies."

The conversation broke while they got into the car, no chivalrous gestures with doors and hand-kissing this time.

“So why this ridiculous insistence that we’re his parents?” Aziraphale asked when they were settled. " Was it really only a ruse to get me to New York? _Why_? I mean, you could just have asked."

“Never spent that long with a kid before. I’m kind of—well, okay. _Fond_ of him.” Crowley stared resentfully ahead as he said the word. “He’s born to kick over the traces, can’t help liking that. I can’t change the past, I’m not Adam. But I can keep tabs on him, make sure no one bothers Warlock in misplaced revenge. Make sure his financial decisions make bank. Curse anyone who gets in his way for the rest of his short life. That kind of thing."

“The watch,” Aziraphale said slowly, feeling his anger melt. “Oh, my dear. I don’t think Adam would let him come to harm. But you can be really--"

“Don’t say it. I’m tired of fighting with you,” said Crowley, which was unusual enough in itself that Aziraphale was struck dumb. Any chance of speaking was further destroyed when Crowley, staring fiercely out of the window, reached out and groped awkwardly for his hand.

They were nearly home, or rather back to the hotel, hands still locked palm to palm, when Aziraphale finally said, “Do you ever wonder what happened to the other child? The third one?"

“No,” said Crowley grimly, but his fingers dug into Aziraphale’s hand a little. Satan worshippers were very odd people.

Aziraphale gave him little sideways glances and sought for something kind to say. “That outfit’s very fetching,” he offered. “Are you sticking to it for a bit?"

“I am now,” Crowley said, suddenly cheering up. “I thought some silk would be nice. Soft.” He glanced down at Aziraphale’s velvet waistcoat. “Come on, angel. Let’s celebrate you staying on Earth with me."

“How?"

Crowley just gave a wide, closed-lips smile, scarlet and deeply alarming.

As it happened, he was on his best behaviour for the rest of the afternoon. An excellent lunch at a restaurant with mid-century modern decor. Crowley rolled his eyes at Aziraphale’s pleasure and made some disparaging remarks about being stuck in the fifties, but the corners of his eyes were crinkling, and Aziraphale knew the demon had been exerting himself to please him. A matinee performance of Mahler, early dinner, then the premier of a musical Aziraphale secretly thought was incredibly crass and gauche, but which Crowley laughed uproariously through. It was enjoyable enough to watch the demon’s head thrown back in delight, sharp face lit up in amusement.

Aziraphale wondered if any of it had been planned, or if Crowley was just finding things as he poked at his phone. It wasn’t as though reserving seats was part of Crowley’s world, anyway. Or his, to be honest. He wasn’t sure what happened to the humans who had formerly held their tickets, but he salved his conscience by sending a little blessing in a general direction.

And through it all was the small, unspoken miracle of their hand joining at every opportunity, in the Rolls, sitting pressed thigh by thigh in the theatre, keeping them close together while they walked. Neither of them mentioned or acknowledged it, but there it was. A fragile physical link that felt as momentous as the End Times. It was unprecedented, yet it was somehow completely natural. After all, it was easier to match their disparate gaits if they held hands, Aziraphale reasoned. And there was no reason to fear someone seeing them fraternising any more— they had well and truly burned that boat to ash.

By after-theatre Scotch, his programme carefully folded away for his collection, Aziraphale was feeling warm, sozzled and a little unsteady. Crowley parked him in a comfy chair by a fireplace and went to the bar to indulge in his usual very specific and quite threatening requirements about what they were drinking and how it would be served.

He sat back and watched Crowley lean on the bar, the velvet pants stretching over the curve of thighs and are held in an inhuman curve, long auburn hair glinting in the dim light. How could anyone think he was human? He looked like some exotic animal of prey, with high heels instead of fangs. Aziraphale marvelled again at the lack of self-preserving instincts humans seemed to have around demons. Once a snake, always a snake, he thought indulgently.

Someone was buying his snake a drink. Someone young, with blond hair in a messy French cut, a half unbuttoned shirt over a sculpted torso, and trousers as tight as Crowley’s. Crowley was arching an eyebrow over his glasses, and of course this kind of thing was Crowley’s _job,_ he would be redirecting the young man to other temptations any minute. It was probably just all the champagne Aziraphale had been drinking since lunchtime that made him get up, reach for the shooter the young man had just bought Crowley, and draining it.

He could feel Crowley’s amusement radiating from him.

“Hey, that was for him!"

“Really?” Aziraphale blinked innocently at him, eyes round. “How very kind of you to buy my husband a drink, dear boy. He can get a little confused about what he wants at times."

The young man, who was really very beautiful, with a lovely line of jaw and just the right amount of stubble, looked him up and down with clear disdain, then met his eyes challengingly. “My mistake. I thought he looked thirsty for something delicious."

“I always am,” Crowley said agreeably and wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist. “I know my own taste best, though, thanks."

“No accounting for it,” the young man said, rolling his eyes, and left.

Aziraphale tried to pull away once he was gone, but Crowley’s arm was firm, holding him by his side. “That was chivalrous,” he said. “Or possessive."

“Hmph. Just didn’t want you to break the poor boy’s heart, you evil demon."

“My lovely hypocritical angel. His heart was the last organ he was thinking with, and you know that perfectly well.” Crowley kissed his cheek, right by his ear. “You realise you just called me your husband?” he breathed into it, pulling away.

“I must be going as crazy as you are."

“I certainly hope so.” Their drinks arrived, and Crowley scooped them expertly up with his left hand without releasing his grip, steering them back to the couch by the fire. A young couple who had taken over it met Crowley’s gaze and decided they would prefer to sit at the bar anyway. “I’d say I can’t wait forever, but I obviously _ will_.” The bitterness, and sudden directness, gave Aziraphale a chill. "Still. I enjoyed that. You can say that any time you like."

“My dear—"

“However long it takes.” Crowley sprawled on the couch, staring into his drink as it turned it in circles. “You said _ too fast._ You didn’t say _stop._ I’ve been thinking that over for, oh, sixty years, give or take. Sixty years out of sixty centuries. Do you realise that was the first time you ever acknowledged we might be going anywhere at all?"

“Is this really the place to have this conversation?” Aziraphale fluttered.

Crowley grinned at him. “It’s the place you decided to call me your husband to make sure I wouldn’t fuck a human."

“Crowley, _ really_."

“It's practically 'our place'. Let me enjoy my moment of happiness.” Crowley leaned back, resting his back against Aziraphale's chest, and Aziraphale was almost sure Crowley closed his eyes under his glasses.

_ All the moments in the world if it’s up to me,_ Aziraphale thought in a rush of tenderness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Crowley is basically wearing Palomo at this point, only with much tighter trousers. Specifically this jacket:  
https://www.palomospain.com/shop-collection/1916/black-and-hounstooth-double-jacket-jwtny


	8. Frightening and at the same time most exciting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets some letters from Hell. Aziraphale gets a cuddly demon.

In the Rolls on the way back to the hotel, a piece of pink paper decorated with cute black snakes with huge yellow eyes fluttered through the closed open window. Crowley caught it, and it immediately burst into flames.

He swore and blew on his fingers, and the paper burned away, leaving a piece of parchment. He read it in silence, a serpentine grin beginning to form, and passed it over to Aziraphale.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked at last.

“It’s a Commendation. A _Low_ Commendation. Haven’t had one of those since creating MySpace."

“For what?"

“For dispatching the traitor Ligur, for preventing the Rebellion happening too early, for protecting the Son of my Master from the virtuous plans of the Archangel Gabriel, and for demonstrating to the rank and file that the power of Heaven will not keep them in fear forever and even holy water can be overcome. Oh, and corrupting a Principality into working with me for the benefit of Hell.”

“So that’s how they are swinging it,” Aziraphale said slowly. “Does this mean it’s not over?"

“We’ll see. Depends on Adam, I suppose."

“Then we’ll be fine."

“Or until the next child.”

Aziraphale sighed. “What about that poor imp? How are they excusing its extinction?"

“Didn’t mention it. They kill imps for fun all the time down there, anyway. They mass-produce them in a pit somewhere."

A second paper followed. This time Crowley tried to be more careful, to no avail. “_Ouch_. Oh, okay, it’s an unofficial memo. Dagon says Hastur and Beezlebub refuse to work with my flash arse any longer, that my pay is reduced for the next century, and that I’ll still report to Dagon with paperwork but I’m being reassigned to Belthegor for command."

“She’s Prince of Sloth, isn’t she? Well, then. She will be perfect for you,” Aziraphale beamed.

“Catty, but true.” Crowley flung himself across the bar seat and latched his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, head down on his shoulder. “Aziraphale, queen of my heart, tell me you’re happy I’m staying on Earth with you."

“I never doubted it for a moment. I wouldn’t have _let_ us be separated after all we went through. But of course, I’m happy, dearest boy.” He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s back. "Shouldn’t you have your seatbelt on?"

Crowley ignored that as unworthy of response. “Call me your husband again."

“_Crowley._"

Crowley laughed, sounding drunk. He rubbed his face against Aziraphale’s neck. “Close enough."

“You’re hopeless."

“Not quite. In fact, a very long way off hopeless.” He kissed Aziraphale’s earlobe.

“But, my dear, if you need help paying for the hotel—"

“Nah. Hell don’t understand Earth currency anyway. Besides, it’s been a long time since they were my main source of support."

“What is?"

“Currently, microtransactions."

“Micro _what_?"

“Don’t worry about it, angel. It’s all free will."

Aziraphale hummed, sure he should disapprove if he took the time to understand. Still, he had been more worried than he had ever been going to admit even to himself, and an affectionate bundle of silk-clad demon in his arms felt more wonderful than any sense or reason would justify. His earlobe was tingling.

The door was pulled open, and the chauffeur hem-hemmed respectfully. Crowley unfolded himself, slid over Aziraphale’s lap and out his door, and Aziraphale followed, aware he was blushing. The chauffeur, in a terrible breach of etiquette, mouthed an amused “Had a good evening, sir?” to him. Aziraphale was sure he should be offended, but he couldn’t help smiling back and sending him a small blessing.

Crowley caught his hand again in the private lift, which was fairly awkward as he was also prowling and circling impatiently as they climbed over fifty floors. Aziraphale’s arm was pulled every which way, half out of his socket. The demon was worse than Warlock wanting to dig up vegetables to see how well they were going.

“Do stand still a little,” Aziraphale begged.

Crowley stared at the level indicator. “I could speed the lift up. We’d be there in ten seconds."

“Don’t you dare."

“That young man in the bar,” Crowley said, as if struck by sudden insight, “thought he was sexier than you.” He pushed his glasses up onto the top of his head, eyes wide with outrage. “He thought you were no competition for him."

“I rather think he did, yes.” Aziraphale twinkled at him, amused.

“I should go back and curse him,” Crowley snarled. “Impertinent mortal."

“That really would not be worth the effort. Maybe you should sober up a little. I don’t think ’sexy’ is something most angels aspire to. That’s more in your line of work."

“I suppose it wasn’t his fault,” Crowley said generously. “It’s your trousers’ fault."

“I really don’t think so, dear. He was very good looking. And there’s nothing wrong with my trousers. Fine cut and quality."

“They’re too baggy, I told you. No one can see your beautiful legs at all. He should have seen you in the sixteenth century.” Crowley’s circling had taken him in front of Aziraphale again, and he snaked his left hand around behind Aziraphale, cupping the fleshy top of his thigh at the top of his shoulder leg. “That bit, right there. That’s so incredibly sexy. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to sink my fingers in right there, just like this?” He dug his fingertips in hard, pulling him closer. “Oh, Aziraphale,” he breathed, yellow eyes very wide.

“That’s very flattering, and also a bit painful, so if you don’t mind, dear.” Aziraphale stepped away in some physical discomfort, almost none of which originated from the grip on his thigh, except indirectly. He could feel Crowley’s assessing gaze behind him, and was relieved when the lift doors opened and he could pull away.

And why was he relieved? Everything he knew he was craving was flinging itself joyfully at him, and all he had to do was open his arms and grasp it. Self-sabotage, for all his determination not to get in his own way. He sighed at himself. But maybe not just that. Crowley’s moods were all over the place, brooding one moment and amorous the next, clearly intoxicated, and perhaps that wasn’t the right moment to try and break years of silence. Or perhaps he was just a coward.

Crowley seemed terribly deflated. Aziraphale, reverting to instinct, offered to order tea.

“I don’t want your blasted tea.” Crowley cast himself on what Aziraphale was already thinking of as Crowley’s couch and pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing?"

“Looking for lives to ruin.” Crowley glared darkly at his phone and then dropped it on the coffee table and stalked to the giant brass telescope.

Aziraphale sighed, ordered the tea anyway, and went into the library, leaving Crowley to stargazing or looking for victims or whatever else he was doing. Crowley had always claimed to despise the stars, but he must have had _some_ affection for his own creations, surely. No one could entirely fail to love their own Creations, not even Her. Not even the ones she tested to destruction, or cast out.

The angel was tired. He had spent thousands of years trying to keep his emotions controllable and kind, not get too attached to humans who always went and died on him and half the time went to Hell, to do his job without breaking his heart and soul over all the pain and atrocity he saw, trying not to question, trying not to hurt, to the comfort in books and good food and feel an impersonal _general_ love and goodwill for everyone. These last few weeks—no, years, since Gabriel had mentioned the Antichrist and then Crowley had called him for help—had smashed all his defences, and Aziraphale had done nothing but feel and feel and _feel_ with the intensity of a human. Or Crowley. How did Crowley cope with all of this, love and anger and fear and loss and wanting and hope, without going mad?

Of course, the dear boy wasn’t _entirely_ stable by most measures. Aziraphale smiled fondly to himself over his book, and the darkness pulled him down.

“Aziraphale. Oh, my poor love, you’re exhausted.” He opened his eyes and looked up. Crowley was wearing a tender expression that should have been impossible for a demon, holding a fragrant steaming cup. “I brought your tea,” he said awkwardly. “Angel, I’m sorry. No matter how often I tell myself not to push too hard, I do."

“No matter how often I tell myself not to pull away, I do,” Aziraphale said, the sleepiness apparently taking away his verbal control a bit.

“If we were competent, we wouldn’t be us. Drink your tea, angel. You’ll feel better."

He obeyed, and it really was delicious. Crowley hovered over him and watched, with almost maternal solicitousness, as if he was Warlock drinking his cocoa before bed. Aziraphale, for his part, caught himself stealing glances upwards with what were probably embarrassingly grateful, verging on doting, looks. He didn’t think he could ever remember being treated with such sympathy, and it made him feel like he was melting.

When he finished and set down the cup, Crowley extended a hand. “Come sleep with me.” Aziraphale hesitated, torn between desire and anxiety, and Crowley repeated, “Sleep with me. Just sleep. We’ll figure things out in the morning."

Aziraphale allowed himself to be led by hand into the bedroom, and didn’t even complain when his clothes were snapped away, Heaven or Hell only knew where to, and replaced with his pyjamas.

He settled into the pillows, and felt covers drawn up over him, and a sharp chin settling into his shoulder, hands tucking around his arm. He reached up to stroke long, soft hair.

“Sleep well, my dearest, and dream of whatever you like best,” he said sleepily.

Crowley’s shoulders shook with sudden amusement. “I thought you didn’t like damp sheets."

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said reproachfully, and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Belphegor, as well as being the Cardinal Demon of Sloth and an ex-archangel, is one of the few demons to ever have got married to a human--and concluded that marriage was Hell on Earth for humans. She seems to be the most likely candidate to wink at Crowley going around declaring himself married, even to an angel.
> 
> Belphegor tempts people with ingenious inventions to make them rich. She will get along just fine with Crowley's speciality of mass-produced, tech-savvy minor evil. Adam may have been helping a bit behind the scenes.


	9. Why complicate things that are really quite simple?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's face it, this entire chapter is pretty much sappiness and lovemaking.

“Angel. Angel, roll over.” Aziraphale felt a painful poke on the side of his ribs.

He was uncomfortable, which seemed unfair in such a ludicrously expensive bed. When had the mattress become so small and uneven and… bony… _oh._

“This is lovely, angel, don’t get me wrong, but it’s also literal torture. Could you roll off?"

Aziraphale blinked his eyes open, and realised his vision was taken up with bare skin. Half a chest, and an arm… Oh, dear. At some point he had rolled fully onto the demon, face down, head on his chest, legs scissored together.

“I’m sorry. I must be heavy. And I think I was drooling on you,” he added with some embarrassment.

“That's not the problem,” Crowley hissed. He was lying very still, arms by his side, as if terrified to move. “Please, Aziraphale, this is agony. One of these days I will stop digging myself into holes, but for now, please just lie on your own side before I embarrass myself."

Aziraphale tried to move as carefully as possible, but his thigh brushed against the fairly obvious sign of how the situation was affecting Crowley. The demon said “Hrghnh,” and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Should've taken female form,” Crowley said breathlessly. “Less of a giveaway. Ah, Aziraphale, I think I need to go take care of this.”

“Let me,” said Aziraphale, before he had realised the words had come out of his mouth.

It was not often he had shocked Crowley, but the demon was staring at him with eyes so wide they were like yellow moons. “You what?"

“Let me take care of you,” Aziraphale said, more firmly, thinking that maybe sleep did clarify things after all. “It's my fault you’re in this state."

“Of course it is, but—angel, why now?"

“Because I want to make you happy.” He was suddenly uncertain. “It _would_ make you happy?"

“Oh, Aziraphale. My love. But—you’ve never even kissed me, and all of a sudden you’re offering—"

Aziraphale leaned in and kissed him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. His mouth seemed to know just enough all on its own, his lips moved and parted and his tongue brushed against Crowley’s and then it didn’t matter what he did or didn’t know because Crowley was kissing him like he was drowning and Aziraphale was his only source of oxygen.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked again, against his mouth. “You won’t regret it and leave me and decide we’re over?” He clung suddenly, as if worried Aziraphale would disappear already.

“I won’t leave, I promise.” Aziraphale’s voice didn’t sound like its own, it was hoarse and cracked, as if the kissing had broken it. “Ever again."

“I don’t think I’ll last very long.” Crowley sounded nervous and apologetic, but there was also the breathlessness of desire, and it wasn’t a real protest.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I have absolutely no idea what to do, apart from the theory of the thing. I’m sure you have had much more accomplished lovers. I’ve never even—well, not even myself."

“Oh, _angel._ It’s you. You couldn’t be anything but perfect.” Crowley took his hand and guided it between them. “And _lovers_ is the wrong word, never had lovers, love never had anything to do with it, except… except…” His eyes were dilated with anxiety still, despite his hitching breath, despite the evidence of desire in Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley’s own hand controlling the strokes, almost a kind of intimate hand-holding despite the urgency and growing pace.

“I want to be your lover,” Aziraphale said, as if the kiss had broken not just his voice but all the barriers. “I want to love you, my _precious_ dear," and Crowley cried out and there was warm messiness between them.

Aziraphale rolled them both onto their sides, pressed kisses on his lips and cheeks and jaw in a kind of ecstasy of worship. He didn’t even care how blasphemous the thought was, worshipping a demon. He had never felt as loved and needed and oh he _loved_ Crowley, loved him so much, loved even the wetness on his belly and hand and he didn’t think he could contain all the feelings bursting out of him. His shoulders were aching where his wings were longing to burst out and he was _glowing_, quite literally, he was shedding dappled golden light all over Crowley and the pillows, and some small part of him was scared it was too much Heavenly light, that it would hurt a demon.

Perhaps that was why Crowley had tears on his face, because he was in pain. Or perhaps Aziraphale had been too rough, despite the guiding hand.

“Are you all right, darling boy?” He ran his hands down Crowley's sides, checking for signs of pain, and it turned into caresses despite himself, stroking and adoring, waist and hips and thighs. Slender and firm and muscular and somehow delicate and _his_.

Crowley was laughing shakily, winding fingers in Aziraphale’s short hair. “I think I’m discorporating,” he said, turning his head and trying to catch more of the kisses on his mouth, somewhat unsuccessfully considering how fervent and random they were, “but otherwise, never better. Never ever better in my entire existence. Tell me you’re mine now, tell me you’re not going to pretend none of this happened and go back to avoiding sitting too close to me on the bus."

“Crowley, I’m an _angel._ Do you think I go in for light-heartedly seducing and abandoning?"

“You’re an awfully odd angel, you have to admit.” Crowley pulled one of Aziraphale’s hands, the one that had touched him, up from his side, and kissed his knuckles.

“All angels are odd,’’ Aziraphale said vaguely, unsure why such a chaste touch was melting him.

“Yeah, I agree, but how many do you think are currently bedding demons?"

“How many do you think are in love with demons?"

“I’m hoping at least one."

“Idiot snake,” said Aziraphale, and kissed him properly.

“I love you too, you know,” Crowley said when their lips parted. “I can’t do the shiny glowy love light show thing like you, but I _feel_ it."

“I know. I trust you. Well,” Aziraphale corrected himself, “I don’t trust you in the everyday way of little things, not at all. I trust you in the big things. Like loving and saving the world. Like loving and saving me."

“What do you mean you don’t trust me in everyday things? You lie a lot more than I do, my sweet hypocritical angel."

“I don’t cheat at chess."

“Neither do I. I’m just smarter than you."

“What did you say about me lying more than you?”

Crowley smirked, and pulled him close. “My clever, honest, _shining_, beautiful love. My… ah, apparently very self-denying love,” he hissed, pressing a thigh upwards and making Aziraphale yelp. “To think I always imagined you to be a complete pillow princess."

“Your expressions are confusing,” Aziraphale admitted. “Are you disappointed I’m not, ah, a pillow princess? I’m not at all experienced.” Worry drowned out his ardour for a moment.

“No, never.” Crowley possessively wrapped his other leg around Aziraphale’s calves, as if to banish the thought. “I just thought that maybe you would let me be your lover and let me love you, not that you would also want—oh, Aziraphale. I should have known you would be generous.” No, not disappointed at all, Aziraphale registered. _Gloating_, like the demon he was. “Of course, I can’t blame you for wanting to touch me. I'm pretty hot, if I do say so myself."

Aziraphale hummed, feeling that level of vanity should not be rewarded, but also not in a state to deny it. He was in a pretty bad way, he had to admit to himself, and the way Crowley was coiling around him like a snake and groping and squeezing everywhere he could reach was not helping at all, or was possibly helping too much.

“Damp sheets,” Crowley gasped suddenly.

“What?"

“They’re horrible, you’re right. And you’re still in your blasted pyjamas. Let’s miracle clean the sheets, and get you into the bathroom and naked. With me this time. Lolling around in that bath alone for hours, glistening with bath oils, you sadistic monster. The whole point of this suite was to play at Rome again and end up in there together, preferably after oil massages. I always wanted to _bite_ the slaves who got to massage you. All your beautiful soft flesh… All right, I wanted to bite you more."

“You looked when I was in the bath,” Aziraphale protested.

“Of course I looked. Like you said, you can’t trust me. I’ve researched every single aphrodisiac combination for the aromatherapy shower there is.”

“Starting with ylang-ylang and sandalwood?"

“Again, you can’t trust me.” Crowley grinned at him. “Mind you, all it seemed to do was get myself more worked up. Come on, love. After all these years of dreaming of what I would do when I got my hands on you, I’m not cut out to be a pillow princess either."

“That would probably be more illuminating if I had any idea what it meant,” Aziraphale complained mildly. It was comfortable in bed, and he didn’t want to delay where things seemed to be going, because it was all very well to be self-denying in the short term as long as one didn’t have to deny oneself too long.

“It means I want to see you and touch you and kiss you and love you and make you come until you see stars,” Crowley explained gently. “Or until your wings come out."

“Is that a thing they do?” Aziraphale asked, painfully aware of his aching shoulder blades. All of him was aching, though, he was a confused jumble of wanting.

“I don’t know. Never happened to me with humans. Still, I didn’t know lighting up like a lamp was a thing, but you managed that. Mine never have, but if they were going to it will be with you. Let’s go find out. And then…” Crowley dragged a hand down Aziraphale’s chest, the buttons parting in its wake, “I very much hope you’ll let me fuck you until you’re gasping my name."

“That sounds nice,” Aziraphale said docilely, which made Crowley laugh and kiss him fiercely, and drag him to the shower, which _was_ wonderful, like rain, like the day they met, only with no fear and worry and no need to take shelter, just loving hands and an ardent mouth and, yes, _stars_. Crowley had always known how to make beautiful stars, and it seemed Falling had just changed the kind.

Then Aziraphale pulled back to the bed, his skin miraculously dry, and carefully and considerately draped over the edge and _oh_, stretched and filled and painful but with lips soothing his shoulder and an incessant whisper of _mine, mine, I love you, my angel, mine,_ matching the rhythm until he fell apart and, yes, his wings opened and he could feel another pair opening behind him in response, curving around to meet his, and the feeling of wing reaching against wing was almost too much as the climax struck him again.

“What are we to each other now?” he asked, when they had put their wings away the better to get comfortable, his glow had dimmed to its usual background radiance and Crowley was wrapped around him, heat-seeking like the serpent he was. Still Adversaries, he supposed, and allies and friends and lovers, and none of those words seemed enough.

“I keep saying it. Maybe soon you will listen,” said Crowley, and kissed his lips. “Sleep, angel. You're safe with me."

"You really are going to do well in the armies of Sloth," Aziraphale said, yawning. "Tempting even an angel into needing sleep."

"Rest and recuperation are healing, my love. Teaching you to appreciate them is at least something I can do for you other than throw money at nice things for you. Not that I don't enjoy that."

"You do everything for me," Aziraphale said, and settled in close. "You _are_ everything. My world."

"And you're mine." Crowley put his head on his shoulder. "At last."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Apparently, "figure things out" means "bonk". *Bumps rating*


	10. Epilogue: Practically perfect in every way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ineffable husbands.

“Oh, dear. No, I don’t think I can with good conscience sell you that book, dear lady. Look, the cover is completely foxed. I’m ashamed of myself, having a book of such poor quality in my shop."

“I don’t mind,” the customer said, slightly bewildered. Her name was Leslie, and she came to the bookshop every week, determined that _this_ time would be the time she bore a book home in triumph. She really couldn’t understand why she kept failing to make a purchase, when there were so many fascinating books there. “It’s really in good condition. A tiny tear on the binding of a book of this age is to be expected."

“No, no, my dear. I simply _must_ have it repaired,” Aziraphale said firmly, snatching it out of her hands and tucking it under his desk. “Perhaps it will be here next time you check."

“Oh, but…” She looked up into his face, so amiable yet with green-blue eyes as hard and bright as gamma-rays, and her objections faltered on her lips. That nice avuncular Mr Fell could be oddly unnerving, sometimes. She looked around desperately for something to break the suddenly tense silence, and found a subject that leapt to her attention.

“There’s—there’s a man in high heels asleep on your floor,” she whispered. “Do you think he’s drunk, or on drugs? Should we call the police, or an ambulance?"

Aziraphale smiled indulgently. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He does that sometimes when he finds a nice sunny spot. He was up all last night playing video games with his godson in America, horrid noisy, violent things, but children will be children, I suppose."

Leslie stared at him. Mr Fell was sweet, really one of the kindest and most erudite people she had ever met, and would happily chat for hours about books over a cup of tea until she brought up the painful subject of purchasing one. He’d been privy to all her marital and child problems over those cups of tea, and he always had the kindest and most helpful advice. Really, it was almost _miraculous_ the way his advice worked out.

Still, she sometimes wondered if he was _too_ eccentric. First of all, there was the giant snake she’d sometimes spotted sliding around as if it had every right to be there, and now there were black-clad gamers curled up like babies and gently snoring on the floor.

“Who _is_ he?"

“No one of consequence,” Aziraphale said breezily. “Just my husband."

“Oh! You never mentioned—oh, congratulations!” She looked again, at the odd figure in tight velvet and silk, and blinked. “He’s not what I imagined—I mean, I did assume you were g—I’m sure he’s very nice when you get to know him."

“He tries to hide it, but yes, he’s very nice indeed,” he twinkled at her.

The man on the floor suddenly sat up and glowered at her, making her jump. He had long auburn hair flopping over his face on one side, and sunglasses. He was sleeping in sunglasses. Who _did_ that? Of course, Leslie had often speculated about Mr Fell’s love life, and mentally paired him up with a nice professorial type, solid and tweedy. She hadn’t imagined a young, well, younger man with bright red _lipstick._

“Hello,” she said in a friendly tone, trying to make the best of it. If Mr Fell liked him enough to marry him, he was probably a creampuff inside. Perhaps she and Derek could have them both over for tea, it would do Derek good to meet a man who actually cared about his appearance. She extended a friendly hand. “I’m Leslie. And you are—"

“Anthony. And we’re closed."

“Oh, but the opening hours are—“ She tried to recall what happened in the shop on Thursdays.

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Aziraphale said apologetically, taking her arm and guiding her to the door. “I forgot to change the sign, but we have plans to meet a book dealer in Kent this afternoon. I do hope to see you again soon."

“See you soon,” she said defeatedly, and the door closed firmly behind her.

Crowley was inspecting the failed purchase. “You could have sold it to her. You have no interest in taxidermy."

“I couldn’t possibly. It’s from New York. There are _memories_ attached.” Aziraphale took it quickly out of his hands and stowed it safely on a shelf.

Crowley felt a sudden dangerous temptation to melt, which didn’t suit his intention, which was to pout until he was petted and flattered back into a good mood. He took off his glasses to make sure Aziraphale noticed he was scowling. “Really, angel, there are limits. I’m no one of consequence _and_ I’m very nice? What are you playing, seeing how much you can insult the demon in his presence while he’s helpless and asleep?"

“You are never helpless, and you can’t have been all that soundly asleep,” Aziraphale said mildly.

“That’s not the point!” He pulled out his phone, the better to demonstrate that he was sulking, and jabbed viciously at it.

“What are you doing?"

“Changing the speed limits in Manchester at random so that everyone gets tickets, and the maps so they all get lost."

“Is that necessary, dear? People might have important things to get to. I was just reading that Thursdays are an increasingly popular day to get married."

“Belthegor keeps me working harder than Beezlebub did. Her title is a complete lie and deception. And besides, you have no say in Manchester, so don’t look all wobbly-eyed at me like that. It’s in the Arrangement."

“Are you quite sure you saw the point of what _I_ was saying?"

Aziraphale was smiling at him, a small shy radiant smile that sent Crowley desperately searching back through his mind to figure out what the point could possibly be. “No one of consequence, just—oh.” He sat down hard on an occasional chair. “Your husband. That’s only the second time you’ve ever said that."

“I was never quite sure whether _you_ were joking when you said it.” Aziraphale stepped closer.

“But you’re sure now?"

“Yes. Yes, I think I am.” Crowley glared at him, and he hastily corrected, “I’m _sure_ I am."

Crowley gave up on the whole idea of sulking and pulled him down and kissed him thoroughly before releasing him. With Aziraphale pink and breathless and with faint smears of lipstick on his mouth—Crowley supposed he really _should_ make his lipstick kiss-proof, but he rather liked leaving smudges on the angel, like little marks of ownership and love—it was impossible to even pretend to be angry with him. Crowley wound his arms around Aziraphale’s waist instead, and settled his head against his lovely soft torso with a sigh of contentment.

Aziraphale stroked his hair. “Don’t go back to sleep, dearest. You have to drive me to Kent in that infernal contraption of yours."

“I assumed you were just fibbing, as usual."

“I would prefer not to. There _are_ book dealers in Kent. If I visited one, that would technically be not a lie."

“And you could buy some books, because you’re suffering a critical shortage and urgently need to stock up. Oh, all right.”Crowley groaned with pretended reluctance, and stood up. “You better buy me a hell of a lunch. I fancy sea bass."

“Before or after we get married? It _is_ Thursday."

“Aziraphale.” Crowley blinked at him. “You wouldn’t want to give me any notice to arrange it? I think legally you have to give some kind of notice. It’s not something I check up on much. Right. I suppose I can fake the background paperwork, I’m not Dagon’s subordinate for nothing. Might have to arrange a sudden bout of gastroenteritis in a happy couple so we can take their spot at the registry office or somewhere, if you can reconcile that with your conscience. You probably can, I know you, never has been a seat at a restaurant or theatre that stands reserved when you want them. I suppose you want actually purchased rings instead of just creating them, so we should drop into De Beers first.” He thumbed open his phone.

“We don’t have to go to a registry office."

“Angel, it says here a licensed premise or a place of worship, and you _know_ I can’t do that."

“Adam and Eve didn’t need licensed premises."

“Well, no. But to be legal—"

“I think you just said something about faking paperwork. How legal were you proposing on being?"

“We don’t exactly have birth certificates, you know."

“We don’t need to get married at all. As far as I’m concerned, we’re already married."

“Oh,” Crowley said, oddly deflated. “All right. It would have been a bit of a rush.”

Aziraphale put his arms around Crowley’s neck and kissed his frown away. “I just wanted to see what you would say if I put you on the spot. If you would have any second thoughts."

“I thought I’m supposed to be the devious one?"

“Crowley, was your entire great seduction plan to just call me your husband and act like we were on a honeymoon until I gave in and decided it was true?” Crowley blushed. “You’re no great judge of deviousness, you ridiculous boy.” Warm lips caressed Crowley’s cheek, as Aziraphale moved closer.

“It worked,” Crowley defended himself.

“Only because you’re adorable.” Aziraphale kissed a little closer to his mouth.

“I’m not adorable, I’m a demon. You’re the adorable one. You are _so_ adorable,” said Crowley, who was beyond caring if he sounded like a twelve-year-old human with a crush so long as Aziraphale’s lips kept moving across his face like that. He made a pathetic little whimper of need, and Aziraphale took the hint and kissed him properly, deeply and voraciously, and oh, Aziraphale was getting very good indeed at kissing. It was obviously worthwhile to keep giving him lots of opportunities to practice, and Crowley made a note to continue to do so over the next six thousand years or so, at the very least.

“I would like rings,” Aziraphale said eventually. “It might stop young humans trying to buy you drinks all the time.” He moved his mouth to Crowley’s neck and flicked his tongue there, his hands dropping lower on Crowley’s hips.

“I doubt it. I—ah, yes, there—know humans, and I know what I look like in tight trousers. But yes, I would like rings,” said Crowley, gleeful at the thought of one of the plump, clever, _wonderful_ hands that were currently undoing his buttons wearing a sign that the angel belonged to him. He might as well wear a sign himself, he had belonged to the angel as long as he could remember. “Oh, darling, come upstairs, you get cranky if I knock down your books and you have a perfectly good bed. I chose it myself."

“And yet you choose to nap on the floor of the bookshop."

“Well, _you_ were down here. Come on, my love."

“I thought we were going to Kent.” The last button parted, and Aziraphale kissed lower. “You should go warm the Bentley up."

“_Aziraphale._ Cut it out."

“All right.” He stepped back and looked innocent, hands behind his back.

“Angel, you know that’s not what I meant. Oh, I hate you.” Crowley pulled him back into his embrace.

“No, you don’t. You love me, because I’m your husband.” The confident smile was both the most terrifying and most wonderful thing in the world, and oh existence, Aziraphale was _glowing_ again, shedding golden light, literally radiating love.

“That’s right, I love you. I love you _so much_, you smug bastard. Now come upstairs before any customers peek in the window and wonder what the special effects are, and we’ll go to Kent and buy you some books afterwards to salve your conscience. And a jeweller’s. Come _on_, before we risk the wings coming out and really terrifying the neighbours."

Aziraphale chuckled and pulled him upstairs by the hand, and there was no one but them to hear the whisper of feathers spreading out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thank you so much, my dears, for the support! It's been a joy to write something shamelessly fluffy and tropy (see, not everything I touch turns to angst).
> 
> 2) Next, I've already started posting my pining!Crowley 14th century fic, and after that... well, I'm already working on my Iddy Iddy Bang Bang and Good Omens Big Bang fics, so I don't think I'm meant to mention many details, but one is another tropy modern era post-canon and one is... not. XD 
> 
> 3) Seriously, I would not have expected how much fun it was to research and live by imagination the lives of the filthy rich. XD
> 
> 4) Thanks to my romana03 for finding [Crowley's shoes](http://asia.christianlouboutin.com/au_en/shop/women/quart-080-calf-1.html)


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